Teenage Wasteland
by Teenage Mouse
Summary: He hasn't heard from England in a while and America is worried. He goes to check up on his friend and meets someone he never expected to see: teenage England. Which is awesome and all, but can teen!Iggy really replace HIS England?
1. Prologue

* ~ Monday ~ *

Well, that was weird…

America frowned down at his iPhone, oblivious to the bustle in the room as his co-workers chatted, packed up and left after their long meeting. He hadn't been allowed to turn on his phone all day, and the instant he did he was met with _this_. He didn't even move to start collecting his own papers and briefcase, too intent was he on trying to work out where the problem lay. Because this just couldn't be right.

Was the Internet not working properly? Was it just constantly refreshing the same page without updating? Was the website itself having some technical difficulty?

_No_, he realised, leaning back in his seat thoughtfully and staring worriedly at his phone. No, everything was working perfectly. So it really must mean that…

England hadn't left a sarcastic comment on his Twitter in over 24 hours!

This might not have been such great cause for alarm, except that England hadn't posted sarcastic comments on his _own_ Twitter in all that time either.

Even when he wasn't leaving biting criticisms on America's wall, England was always updating his own page with cutting observations about the world around him – other nations, politicians, celebrities, places, current events, food, TV, movies, literature, commercials…None of it was ever good enough to receive a positive review, but England still felt the need to tweet about it in varying degrees of irritation and outrage.

Ever since the older nation had really gotten the hang of Twitter (and boy, was America regretting tutoring him, since it just ended up with his own wall getting bombarded by British insults and spelling) America had been able to count on an update every few hours or so. (Protest as he may, it was clear that either England had nothing better to do or he actually enjoyed complaining that much.) So to hear nothing for a whole day…

Well, he wouldn't say he was _worried_, but the longest America had ever had to wait between updates before now was only about 8 hours or so. And that was only because England was sleeping.

Perhaps England had just grown out of Twitter, America mused. It was quite possible, since the island nation loudly refused to get involved with most social networking phenomenon – in fact, it was a ridiculously huge surprise when he got Twitter in the first place. Before America, even! (He still felt ashamed that the old man had beaten him to the punch on that one.)

No. Okay. It was probably fine, America thought, rolling his shoulders and leaning back in his chair to try and pretend to himself that he felt casual about this. England had probably just abandoned Twitter. It wasn't his type of thing anyway, as much as he apparently enjoyed complaining to large groups of people at once. England was just bored of being part of the 21st century and had gone back to Jane Austen and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

There was no need to be surprised, and certainly no need to be worried.

_Really_, America kept telling himself the rest of the evening.

.

.

.

* ~ Tuesday ~ *

He refused to call and make sure England was still alive.

That would just be the most ridiculous and embarrassing conversation ever.

"I noticed you weren't online. Are you okay?"

Jesus, he was not going anywhere near that. Nooooo way.

.

.

.

* ~ Wednesday ~ *

Okay, so _maybe_ he'd spent most of yesterday trying to figure out an excuse to ask Matt if he'd talked to England in the past two days.

"He has my favourite…scarf…and I want it back right now"?

"He owes me a beer and I'm thirsty"?

"I need to ask him a work related question but I can't phone him myself because of reasons"?

But now it was day three with no news from Britain and, okay, he would admit he was getting a little worried. Could someone really just go from religiously tweeting every few hours to _nothing_? America sure couldn't.

In fact, he was worried enough to just phone Canada and ask if he'd heard from Iggy recently, because he'd noticed that England had stopped bitching about everything online and he was wondering if he should allow himself to hope that it was permanent. 'Cause, you know, England's a dick. Ha ha.

But when he called that morning, it turned out that Canada had had no news from England in the past few days, either.

And when America called back at noon, Canada still hadn't heard from him.

He hadn't heard anything a few hours later, either.

And by dinner time, Canada had stopped picking up the phone.

.

.

.

* ~ Thursday ~ *

Canada had brought up a good point, though; maybe there was a problem on England's end.

Maybe the Internet was down at his house.

…But then he would just go to the library or the office, or something.

Maybe he was visiting his country cottage, which had really bad reception?

…But it was nearly Christmas, and England usually spent that time working hard in London until the big international Christmas party/parallel-universe-invasion/whatever-might-happen-this-year.

It gave America an idea, though. Perhaps if he laid some bait on Twitter then England would bite and he could at least find out if the older nation was alive.

And so America tweeted: "me and tony r gonna go n get us sum mickey ds for reels yall"

It even made _him_ cringe; England wouldn't be able to resist.

Even if the other nation _did_ happen to be without Internet access at the moment, England could sniff out bad grammar (especially where America was concerned) like it was his own personal and incredibly lame superpower. He would find a way to get online and lecture him, Internet access or not. So now America would just have to sit back, and wait…

It was now nearly midnight, and there was no reply –

And that meant something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Alright, he admitted it: he was worried, to say the least.

And after America's fifth desperate phone call in the past hour, Canada had certainly heard enough to say that it was a little more than "the least."

He finally managed to convince his ridiculous brother to just fly over there and see what was wrong for himself. If England had just given up on Twitter, or there was some other reasonable explanation as to why he hadn't tweeted recently, America could just pass the visit off as an excuse to bother his ex-guardian about Christmas presents or something. Although _why_ America wanted an excuse and was so nervous about going to visit England was a mystery.

"_Me_? Nervous about visiting England's house? Yeah, right, Mattie! That's a good one! Ha ha ha! What would I have to be nervous about? It's just England! Anyway, I guess I can spare some time and go make sure the old man hasn't slipped in the shower, or fallen down the stairs, or killed himself with knitting needles or whatever old people do. 'Cause I'm the hero, after all! I have to help look after the weak. You know, I'm glad I came up with this idea. Gotta go, then. Talk to ya later, Matt!"

America hung up, one hand already clicking at his computer mouse to book a flight to England, while the other hand held his phone, thumb flying over the keyboard as he updated his Twitter.

"Hopping across the pond to visit an elderly relative. Brb."

* * *

><p>AN:

This was written for the Special Relationship Secret Santa project, over on LJ. But it has nothing to do with Christmas.

It also has nothing to with Twitter - I just loved that addition to Hetaween and it incorporated itself into this story.

Expect things to get very different from now on...


	2. Friday

* ~ Friday ~ *

America arrived on the doorstep of England's London town house at 7 p.m. on Friday. It was much later than he would have liked, but at least he was here now.

And at least there were clearly signs of life in England's house.

Although now he had an entirely new concern: why were those signs of life so very…un-England?

There was music blasting through the house and out into the street – so loud that America could tell very clearly that it was a song by The Who. All the lights were on (England was normally very energy conscious) and, through the closed curtains, America could see the shadow of a person dancing round the living room on the ground floor.

He knocked on the front door, even though the pounding music would have drowned out the sound to anyone inside. So he tried the door handle itself and, to his surprise, found it open. Hitching his backpack further over his shoulder, he peeked tentatively inside.

There was what could only be described as "stuff everywhere."

England's front door opened up onto a narrow hallway with a kitchen visible at the end; a doorway leading to the living room was a few steps in on the right; stairs going up to the second floor just on the left.

But almost all of this space was covered in, well, _stuff_. Books, papers, clothes (obviously from several different decades), photos, food, wrappers, cans, bottles, CDs – literally everything England might possibly have in his house appeared to have found a home on the floor.

_Weird._ America couldn't manage to think much more than that. This was all just too…weird.

America stepped cautiously inside, closing England's door behind him quietly, which had to be a first.

As he stared absent-mindedly down at some of the junk around his feet, an urgent realisation flashed into his mind: this wasn't weird – this was terrifying!

England had clearly been murdered and some punks had taken over his house!

With that, America's confusion evaporated as his fundamental protective instincts kicked in. He dropped his backpack to the ground, strode through the carpet of random objects and burst into the living room – no weapon at hand, but ready to fight as many of these punks as he found to get some answers to England's disappearance.

Surprisingly, the only punk he found in the room was England himself.

…Who was wearing black skinny jeans and a slim-fitting 'The Clash' t-shirt.

…And dancing around a room doing air guitar.

...And singing along, loudly, to "Teenage Wasteland".

Okay, so at least it wasn't "terrifying" anymore, but the situation had managed to reach whole new levels of weird.

Confusion settled over America again like a thick layer of dust, and he just stood there listlessly, staring at his old guardian, completely nonplussed.

It took almost a whole minute before England spun around in his dance and noticed him. And when he did, he wasn't embarrassed. He didn't start blushing and stammering and denying. No calling America "bloody git", and asking what the hell he thought he was doing barging into other people's homes like this at this time of night.

None of that.

Instead, when his eyes met America's, he dropped his air guitar and checked the other nation out.

It wasn't appreciative.

It wasn't because America looked any different than usual.

It was just plain and shamelessly full of sex.

England's eyes raked down America's body, taking in every inch of him. And it was clear – so, _so_ clear – that England decided that he wanted _all_ of that, that he knew that he was going to get it, and that he was already imagining what he was going to do with it.

When green eyes met blue again, England's lips tugged up into an uneven smirk, and his eyes smouldered with fire and lust.

That look and the implications (_fuck implications!_ They both knew exactly what was going on without any words needing to be shared) sent a jolt of electricity rushing up America's spine. He shivered, goosebumps prickling his skin, and with the way England was staring at him so intently, he knew the other nation must have noticed. Those green eyes burned into him until he could almost physically feel it, and that danger-full smirk twitched higher.

"Well, hel_lo_."

America just gulped, like it was a fricking cartoon or something.

He was tempted to say that England looked like a predator – except that the look England was giving him said very clearly that he was going to fuck him and _then_ eat him. And from what America understood of the animal kingdom, that wasn't the way it tended to work.

"E-E-England!" _Fuck, that was lame. _America coughed to calm his voice down and get back in some semblance of control. "What are you doing?"

"This is my house, isn't it? My capital? My country? I can do whatever the fuck I want. And I believe I shall."

He took a step closer to America, and for that one step, America quickly stumbled back three, getting tangled in his own feet and the crap on the floor in his rush to get away.

"Y-yeah, it's your house, but I mean…Well, this isn't like you. Just wondering if…if you're…okay?" Had he really pushed himself up against the wall like a cowering girl in a horror movie? Jesus…

"I'm just fine," England practically growled at him. Luckily he didn't attempt to come any closer just yet. America was shamed to see that the older nation appeared to be enjoying the cat-and-trapped-mouse moment between them.

"So, who are you then?"

America blanched.

"What?"

"Well, you're not any of the old European countries. Could be a new one, I suppose. You _are_ a nation, I take it?" His eyes widened suddenly as a thought struck him. His eyes lit in excitement, but he kept his face masked casually. "Tell me, are you from the New World?"

Okay, so maybe England wasn't as "just fine" as he claimed to be.

* * *

><p>America managed to get England to stop molesting him with his eyes for long enough to get the other to explain just what the hell was going on. The other nation just plucked a crumpled piece of paper off a nearby shelf and held it out.<p>

"Found that when I woke up here," he explained. "Should explain everything – if you're really _that_ concerned." The last bit was added with a knowing smirk and a sultry flash of the eyes.

America reached out, slowly and cautiously, afraid of getting too close to this weird England in case the other man took the opportunity to grab him. The way he held out the letter and smiled just couldn't be trusted.

America snatched the paper away quickly and took a step back.

The paper was a letter written in England's own neat handwriting and, after just a few sentences, America realised he would have to sit down for this. Keeping a nervous eye on this creepy England, he edged his way around him (the other watching him hungrily the entire time) and went to sit on the sofa.

America frowned as he began reading again.

Of course, it was all down to magic.

America just _loved_ to deny that it existed, so obviously it was the only answer England was going to give him. The only clue he was going to get to help resolve the situation was something that he didn't believe in. England could never do anything by halves: if he was going to go insane, "magic" had to be involved, just to make things even more complicated for everyone.

'_Everyone_' being '_America_,' since he seemed to be the only person concerned with the fact that, for the past five days, England had fallen off the radar because he was busy with amnesia.

Yes, whether magic was involved or not, the smaller nation had apparently lost all memories of the past 4 or 5 centuries. The letter explained it, and now "England's" weird attitude began to make sense.

But America needed a few things cleared up before he accepted the situation completely. First of all, he didn't entirely understand the magic in question, and second:

"I can't…I can't really read this too good," he admitted.

England raised an eyebrow at him and America felt like a stupid child. He squirmed as England sauntered over and slunk into the seat beside him – not too close, but just enough that their knees brushed, making America's stomach churn.

_Why was England so freaking terrifying like this? _

"You're _speaking_ English. Can't you read it?" England asked, crossing his legs elegantly.

"I can read just fine but this…this is, like, old-timey English. It's all flowery and the words are spelled weird. I mean, I get the basics about a magic spell and losing memories. And these," he gestured to the last few paragraphs, "look like instructions about electricity and plumbing and stuff. But I just don't understand every word. And I never got England when he was going on about magic, anyway," America added.

"I expect that the England from your time wrote it in this style so that _I_ would be able to read it," the shorter blonde explained. "I must admit, I've tried reading what I've seen around the house, and this 21st century English is quite different. So simple and crass, I can barely stand to look at it."

America felt like arguing, but that fire died instantly and he sucked in a breath as England leaned in closer, his chest pressing against America's arm. America held his breath as England (pretending not to notice the other's discomfort, but thoroughly enjoying it) pointed at the sentences on the paper as he paraphrased the letter.

"It basically says that _your_ England wanted to test out a magic spell that would allow him to forget all his memories of the past several hundred years. He doesn't appear to have known exactly how many centuries he would lose, but all I know is that I went to sleep on board my ship on December 11th, 1600. When I woke up I was lying on the floor of the room downstairs, wearing the most hideous clothes, and looking _so_ _old_. And this letter was lying next to me, dated December 11th, 2011."

America, fear forgotten in his shock (fear about what?), looked up at the other nation and stared. "1600? You've forgotten everything from the past 411 years?"

"_I_ have forgotten nothing," England said adamantly, frowning at the taller nation. "_He_ is the one who forgot. _He_ is the one who went away and left me in his place."

America suddenly felt a stab of fear – did that mean the two Englands had switched places? Was 21st century England currently stuck on a ship in the middle of the ocean in 1600, possibly in terrible danger?

He looked closer at the England before him, staring into his eyes.

No. Those eyes, so green it was always a surprise, were the ones America knew – the ones he had grown up with. Behind the distracting punk exterior and pirate attitude, it was still the same 23-year-old England whom America knew.

So they hadn't traded places; present-day England hadn't been physically turned _into_ his past self. He was sitting right there in front of America. He just…didn't remember his own life.

For all intents and purposes, England was now his teenaged self: captain of the _Britannia Angel_, "privateer" (England always laughed at some inside joke whenever he said that), ruthless, volatile, domineering, thrilling, 17th century England.

America was almost tempted to believe that the older nation was pulling some elaborate prank on him, but England would _never_ look at him the way he had been doing. Not even for a joke to humiliate his former colony.

"The letter says that the spell will break on Sunday, at midnight," England explained, deciding that America had spent too long quietly thinking to himself. "I've been here since Monday morning, so the spell seems to last a week."

"So we don't have to do anything to turn you back to normal? The spell has a time limit and then you'll just…remember everything?" America frowned in worry, not daring to hope things might be this easy.

"So it would seem."

Well, that certainly eased a weight off America's mind. He'd been worried it was one of those "spell gone wrong" situations England was always complaining about (and which America never believed). But if everything was going to sort itself out in just over 48 hours, then he really had nothing to worry about.

"And in his letter, your England said – "

"Don't call him that."

"What?" England looked genuinely confused for a moment. America blushed, realising he'd just given this England some dangerous ammunition. "Oh," England smirked, looking devious and excited. America had to shut his eyes against it. "Not '_your_ England' then. And you don't want to be reminded of that."

"It's not like that," America said quickly, trying to convince both of them. "It just sounds wrong. Just 'England' is fine, I know who you mean."

England's leer sank back into something less taunting. "Well, _England_ then, he wrote in his letter that I needn't concern myself with politics and diplomatic relations and managing the country in his 'absence.' He instructed me not to even research the centuries I'd missed as I wouldn't be able to change anything about my future anyway. Since, when the spell is over, I won't be going back to _my_ time – I'll be going back to _his_." He looked…resentful, but America wasn't sure why. Surely this England wasn't a different entity to the England he knew, so why would he want to go back to the past instead of for everything to go back to normal?

"He said he took the week off of work and made sure he was expecting no visitors. So I should just stay here, out of trouble and try to...enjoy myself." America knew just what this sleazy England was picturing when he thought of how he intended to 'enjoy himself.' "But I'm curious," England continued, looking demure and false. "He seemed so sure in his letter that no one would come. No one would even notice he was gone. So who are _you_? You never told me your name."

"I'm America. The United States of America."

"America…" England gasped, eyes widening visibly before he quickly gained control of himself. "How interesting. So who won you in the end? Was it Spain? France?"

"Nobody."

It was so forceful that England leant back in evident surprise, making America realise how close their faces had gotten. "Nobody '_won'_ me. I made my own decisions. I am independent."

England studied him more closely, and America got the impression that he was being sized up, judged, estimated – but not as a plaything now. Instead, it was as a person: England had realised he was dealing with someone of worth. Someone not to be taken so lightly.

"I see," was all the old empire said. "How very…unexpected."

England shifted a little, resting his elbow on the back of the couch and leaning his cheek on his fist as he looked intently at the taller nation. "So tell me America…" A pause which felt very dramatic. "How do I get you in my bed?"

And just when America had thought he was being taken seriously…

"You don't."

"Oh, come now," England smiled, looking genuinely amused "You can't tell me you don't want it. Don't want…_your England_," he purred, looming over America, who quickly leant backwards, almost bending himself over the arm of the couch to get away.

America's eyes must have been humiliatingly wide right now.

But seriously, this was _England_! _England_ coming on to him in the most lewd and obvious way. _England_ practically draped across his chest and breathing hard over his face.

If this had been any other day, any other situation leading up to this then…well, that wasn't the point.

The fact was, this England was wrong.

He was a world power in a far different age, used to taking whatever he desired, indulging his every urge and whim without a thought to anyone else. He may have called himself a privateer, but he was no better than a pirate: using and abusing other people like objects. America had heard stories about him, but could never get his head round the idea.

But now he knew. Now he knew why Spain and France turned pale whenever they remembered him.

England could be scary.

"You don't know me," America said. He put his hands on England's chest and pushed him gently away to give himself some breathing space. England stayed hovering over him, hands on either side of the American who was half laying on the couch underneath him, back pressed against the armrest. America took a deep breath, finally calming down from the shock of having England pay this kind of attention to him. "You don't know who we are to each other. You can't make a decision about whether you want this or not. It doesn't matter if either of us want it; trust me, it's not a good idea."

England looked at him for a moment, pierced him right through with that vibrant green gaze like it was a hook. America got the impression that that was usually enough to get people to obey him, as he even felt himself crumbling underneath that stare.

"Well. I must admit America, you are full of surprises."

America looked at him, hoping he looked more resolved than he felt.

"It's a different time, England. Nations don't act like that anymore. You can't just take whatever you want and – "

"That's not what I meant," England interrupted.

Rather than sit back fully as America had hoped he would, England leant in, impossibly close, pressing his nose and lips against the top of America's jaw. England breathed him in, and a jolt of electricity shot through America's body, as if one touch from England was like fuel, like energy.

"You _care_. You really _do_ want it. Or rather…_him_."

America couldn't find the power to talk. That electricity that had shot through him hadn't _given_ him energy – it had drained it. Now he was left weak and tingling all over as England breathed heavily in America's ear, once, twice, without touching him.

"How novel," England whispered, and America thought the intensity and closeness of that voice would echo in his mind forever afterward. "Nobody's ever _cared_ before. Nobody's ever actually _wanted_…"

Something hot and damp, strong and flexible was exploring his ear lobe. That was England's _tongue_ on his ear, his brain registered. And when England's teeth joined in and grazed at him, America's whole body seize up.

He felt light-headed, dazed by the pounding of blood in his ears, and his limbs tingling right down to his bones. But he didn't feel weak because the other was overpowering. It wasn't because this England was used to getting his way, and America had no choice but to give in.

It was because America _wanted_ it. God, did he want it.

Hundreds of years he'd lived, and who knew how many hundreds and hundreds of years more…This might be his only chance.

And England was used to it. _This_ England at any rate. This was nothing to him, it didn't have to be a big deal. America could indulge him, he was only here for a short while. Why not entertain him?

And that was England's hand rippling up his side, America's brain gasped at him. England slinking under his layers of jacket, hoodie and shirts to tease the hot, shuddering skin underneath. _England_ touching him, England removing his hoodie and America was helping…

When England threw the hoodie to one side and shot down to suck at the flesh on his collarbone, America realised he was about to moan. But he didn't want to give in that far just yet. So he grabbed the back of England's head, fingers coursing through soft blonde hair, and pulled the other man up until their lips met. And instantly they were melding together furiously, tongues winding around each other, hot and wet, fast and desperate.

It was heaven.

It wouldn't be taking advantage of England when he wasn't completely himself, America reasoned. Because England _was_ himself. Just a younger version – a version who wanted to let them both indulge themselves. That didn't have to mean it was _wrong_, just because it was something England wouldn't usually do…

America arched up into the fierce nation above him, legs squirming with the urge to wrap around the other's waist. Their lips remained locked and moving wetly, sloppily together, and he wanted more.

_But this isn't the real England_, America's heart interrupted sternly, even as he felt a hand snaking into his jeans and pressing against the bulge in his boxers. Not the England who knew him, who could actually know how to feel about him – for better or worse.

And America knew, deep down, that he didn't want it like this. No moral loophole would fix the fact that he didn't want it from _this_ England, and not when England didn't want it they way America wanted him to.

Before his mind and body could give in, America shoved England away from him and scrambled off the couch, running to the living room doorway and standing there, as if waiting for a natural disaster.

"Youdon't know me," America repeated, inwardly cheering at how calm and normal his voice sounded, keeping his desire and confusion a secret. _Stay firm with him_, America told himself. _He'll have to listen to you if you make it clear._

England's eyebrows slowly, ever so slowly, sank down until they furrowed into a deep, dark glare.

"I _don't_ need to," he challenged. And suddenly he was up and striding towards him, so quick that America barely registered it before England was on him.

And it would be so easy to let this happen, America thought, gasping and arching as the other nation bit into his shoulder, teeth sharp even though the remaining layer of clothes. They both wanted it, it was only his heart that was making a fuss. It was so unfair…

"Stop," he panted, as England stroked him through his boxers again. "You don't understand."

"_Don't_ try to tell me what to do!" England barked, whipping his head up with a glare that stabbed like daggers into America's eyes.

In such a bizarre, terrifying, awkward, surreal situation, America found that his absurd strength fit in perfectly.

He yanked an arm out of the firm grip England had on him, and knocked the other over the head, unconscious. England's legs buckled under him, and America swooped down and caught him before the smaller nation could hit the floor.

And suddenly, he felt completely exhausted.

America sank to his knees, holding the other nation close, despite feeling like he had a fierce, wild animal in his arms, ready to wake at any moment. He rested his cheek on top of England's soft hair.

The world seemed to have turned upside down since he entered this house, but there was one thing America was sure of: this was going to be a long 48 hours.

* * *

><p>AN:

Enter Teen!Iggy - the BAMF of BAMFs.

This story is actually all complete, by the way, so updates will be quick. I'll be away from my laptop for the next few days (will have to F5 Christmas Bloodbath on my phone...) but there should be another update by the end of the week.


	3. Saturday

* ~ Saturday ~ *

When England finally arrived in the kitchen the next morning, America watched him nervously for any signs of, uh, his teenage pirate libido.

But England didn't even look at or speak to the other nation, just busied himself making some tea (the post-it notes which present-day-England had left everywhere helping the 17th century man use the modern kitchen appliances). Finally, he sat down opposite America, who had been frozen with a spoon of cereal raised halfway to his mouth the entire time. England took one sip of his tea, "mm"ed in contentment, and then deigned to look up at his breakfast companion.

"Good morning."

America stared, spoon still hanging in mid air. "Uuuh…'morning."

"I suppose you'll want me to apologise for last night before you feel entirely comfortable?" America couldn't tell if it was a question or an assumption. "But I have no intention of doing so," England said, nose in the air and sipping his tea delicately, a law entirely unto himself.

"For one thing, I had been drinking."

Oh. Right. All those bottles everywhere. America had been so focused on the moral dilemma of taking advantage of England when he had amnesia that he hadn't thought about him being drunk…

"And for another, you might be up in arms about the fact that you're from a '_different time_', and people don't act like that here. But _I'm_ from a different time, too, where people _do_ act like that. It works both ways, you know."

"No, it doesn't!" America interrupted indignantly, spoon finally clattering down into his bowl, forgotten. "You can't bring your rules _here_ and expect people to go along with them just because _you're_ okay with it. If you're in _this_ time, you have to follow _these_ rules."

"This is hardly a holiday for me, America," England said, giving him a withering look. "I have been torn out of my time and put here against my will. Your rules do not govern me."

"You haven't been '_torn out_' of anywhere, England! You've been here the whole time. You just don't remember."

"And whose fault is that?"

America couldn't help the smirk that crept onto his face. "Weeeell…"

"Enough!"

England slammed his palms down on the table, raising himself from his seat so that America had to look up at him and his dark, forbidding scowl. "It's _his_ fault: the _other_ England. Not mine. I had nothing to do with this. He is _not_ me, and I am _not_ him, so don't confuse us. If you do, it will be at _your_ peril."

America didn't need telling twice. He understood full well that this wasn't the England he knew.

"Look, I'm sorry if everything feels weird," he said gently, raising his hands peaceably to encourage the other to sit back down. "I know you think you're from 1600 – " England opened his mouth to protest the 'think' statement, so America raised his voice to talk over him " – _but_ you don't have to worry, okay? Everything will be fine. I'm gonna stay with you the rest of the weekend, and make sure everything sorts itself out tomorrow night, like the letter says."

"What did I just tell you about confusing me for him?"

"I'm not. _Believe_ me, I _know_ you're not him." England raised a calculating eyebrow at the melancholy in America's voice. "But you still sort of are. I mean, you're not the England I've always known, but you're still _England_. And we're friends, and I want to make sure you're…okay."

There was a long pause while England debated whether to bring up the matter that had started the conversation in the first place. "Even after last night?"

America looked up from his lap and offered the other a wry grin. "You've seen that I can take care of myself," he said, and England looked away with a scowl. "I appreciate that you're from a different time. You're used to just…just taking whatever you want and having fun, I guess. That's how you've always lived and that's fine; I _get_ it. But I'm telling you right now, that does not apply to me – or to anyone or anything else in this time period. I'm happy to spend time with you; honestly, I've always wondered what England was like as a teenager. But just don't try any of that stuff again, okay?"

"Why?"

Always an argument with this guy. Could never just take a nice, fair instruction.

"Because – "

"Because it's a 'different time'? Because that's not how it works?" England asked, sounding genuinely curious instead of angry or offended. But then a shrewd, taunting expression washed over his face, reminding America uncomfortably of last night. "Or because you don't want to be with the wrong England?"

America didn't stutter, or bumble, or get embarrassed this time. Last night he'd been too surprised to get a grip on himself: shocked at the other nation's behaviour, nerve-wrecked by his predatory attitude, and desperate for that kind of attention from _him_.

He'd let himself get carried away.

But he wasn't affected by that anymore. His physical urges had taken over yesterday but now he knew full well, just as the nation sitting opposite him had said: this wasn't the England he knew. And this wasn't right.

Not only did America not want it this way, but he was more convinced than ever that it would be taking advantage of England if he let anything happen. Whether England was the one initiating things or not, the man was suffering from _amnesia_, for God's sake! If America used it as a freaking _opportunity_…Well, he'd just never be able to look himself in the eye again.

So no matter how this devious England acted, no matter how he taunted, teased and flirted – America knew he could handle it now.

"England never told me much about his past," America said, simply, folding his arms on the table and leaning forwards, looking the other in the eye, intently. "But I know it was different from anything I've ever experienced. And quite frankly, I feel sorry for you." England's eyes widened, as if unable to believe that some greenhorn modern nation could look down on _him_, an ancient and powerful empire.

"You all treated each other like objects back then," America explained. "Other nations were there to be destroyed, won, used and…That's just not how it is anymore," he sighed, shaking his head. "We're people now. We respect each other. Yes, we have arguments, and friendships can be broken. But we have grown up, England. We don't treat each other like tools for our own gain. I'm sorry that things have changed and you can't have your way so easily anymore. But it's all for the better. I promise."

England stared at him. Not in shock or surprise. Even if he was feeling it, he didn't let it show. He simply frowned, his green eyes seeming darker than usual.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," England said finally, though he didn't look angry. He was just stating a fact – putting America in his place like the little boy he seemed to be to the older nation. "You think I go around using other nations however I want? Well, I have to _win_ them first. And do you know how I do that? By being better and stronger than them." His voice grew louder as his passion flared, eyes blazing, but not in anger: just with that natural ferocity and conviction that always captured America's attention.

"I deserve everything I get because I work _damn_ hard for it, America. I have to fight for _everything_. I doubt you've ever had to go through what I have, and let me tell you, any '_gain_' I get is well-earned and I can use it however the bloody hell I want. I get my back into my living, so I don't need to be pitied or forgiven for anything I do – least of all by _you_: some _infant_! And I will not argue with you anymore on this matter. I don't need to fight you on this to prove myself right. You don't need to accept it or understand it for it to be true."

He leant back in his chair, lecture over, and sipped his tea calmly with his eyes closed, though the furrow of his impressive dark eyebrows was tense.

America shifted uncomfortably in his seat, for _once_ choosing his words carefully before he spoke.

"I know it must be hard for you to grasp, just like it's hard for me to understand _your_ way of life," America began, tentatively. "But the way we do things isn't…it isn't _weak_, if that's what you're thinking. We just _try_ harder to overcome our differences. We don't resort to wars and fights so easy. We talk about it, instead – make an effort to meet in the middle. And I think everyone's much happier that way. We can focus on actually _living_ a little, and being friends and stuff."

"How frightfully _normal_ of us," England said, with a smile that did not look amused. "You make it sound almost as if we live like humans these days."

"That's exactly how it is," America confirmed. "We can learn a lot from them."

"Well, then, I hope you never end up spending a week in _my_ world, America," England smiled, dangerously. "I don't think you would like what you saw. You think us nations treat _each other_ badly? You'd pale to see what we do to the mortals."

America glared at him, warningly. "You don't scare me."

"I wasn't trying to. It was just an observation," England said, his smile looking almost genuine. "But it seems awfully hypocritical of you to blame me for being myself whilst trying to preach your own way of living."

"I don't blame you," grinned America, though his stomach was still churning in fear for those poor humans, long dead, and what they had had to live through. "You can't help it that you're spoiled." England rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

"Okay, how's this," America said, trying to infuse some positivity into the atmosphere. "We'll forget about our differences. Arguing about them won't get us anywhere, anyway. So let's just stop talking and get on with it."

England arched an eyebrow at him and thought for a moment. "I suppose I am willing to behave myself to your standards for the day if you show me around my London Town. I want to see what it's like out there."

"Really?" America asked, wondering if it could really be that simple. "You won't go all rapey again?"

England looked disgusted. "I'm not an animal, America. I'm quite capable of controlling myself. When I want to," he added with a smirk, but America sensed the joke behind it. England wasn't trying to be threatening or predatory now.

And America supposed there was really no need to be _so_ worried about England. The poor man was just acting the only way he knew how, and he was right: America shouldn't treat him like a monster just because of that. Besides, he knew for a fact that in the olden days, England was also an intelligent and cultured man, as well as a dangerous privateer.

So maybe he got a little drunk last night and wanted some physical fun with the first available person – that didn't mean he would act like that the whole time.

"Okay," America decided, nodding firmly and banging his palms on the table with a resounding slap. "I trust you. I know you're not a totally bad guy, and I'm willing to forgive your little drunken activities last night. Even though you still haven't said sorry."

"I told you I wasn't going to."

America grinned, almost enjoying England's fire more than usual, since it wasn't aimed solely at telling him he was an 'obnoxious twit.'

"Well, anyway. Let's get ready and then we can go out for a decent breakfast. You look like shit; you could obviously do with some food to cure your hangover." England huffed, and mumbled something about '_his_ fault for leaving me so much liquor.' "And then we can go out and hit the town!"

England smiled, and it was neither predatory, scary, sarcastic or cruel. It wasn't exactly the innocent and happy little smiles America had glimpsed on the real England sometimes, the ones he wished he could see more often. But this England looked excited and eager, and America felt himself joining in.

* * *

><p>So it turned out that teenage-England was a shit ton of fun.<p>

First, America found them a café doing a big greasy breakfast and England didn't complain. In fact, he raved about how good it tasted and ate two more eggs and three more helpings of bacon and sausage than America did.

After that it was nearly noon, and when they left the café America had to admit that he didn't know London too well. England said he was happy just going out to explore, so then…they just ran wild.

Shops, parks, riversides, landmarks – they invaded everywhere and made it their own personal playground.

England was a freaking riot. It was actually purely insane how different he was to his usual self. You might be able to convince 21st century England to go out into London for the afternoon if you asked to be lectured on the history of this or that monument, or be shown the best tea rooms. But teenage-England was the one dragging you into a music store to have a loud go on the guitars; grabbing some spray-paint off a kid in an alley and graffitiing some pirate slang under a bridge by the river Thames; photo-bombing every tourist snapshot in the city; leading an entire double-decker bus of people in a rousing chorus of 'God Save the Queen' (which he had apparently heard on a CD back at the house and _loved_)…

They ended up in some random house in Kensington for lunch – and America was pretty sure they were crashing a wedding party. Later, in an empty parking lot, England managed to convince someone to let him have a go on their motorcycle. (And thank God for America's super strength again, being able to stop the motorcycle before England crashed into a wall – though the human it belonged to remained shell-shocked as they ran away laughing). England blagged his way backstage at the Globe Theatre for an after-party (proclaiming loudly that it was nowhere near as good as back in the 16th century, though he enjoyed the "real live women actors"). And when America asked if he wanted to go check out the Tate Modern or something, the other laughed in his face.

"A museum? What are you, fucking _90_?"

"I dunno, Iggy, I just thought..." He caught England's stare and gasped, realising his slip-up. God, the way regular England hounded him for that nickname, he wouldn't be surprised if teenage-England straight up stabbed him in the chest. He actually clenched his eyes shut and waited for the blow.

But all he got was a chuckle.

"Iggy, eh? I like it!"

It was just too surreal…

And yet America couldn't remember the last time he had had this much fun. Not with Canada, not with Tony, not with anyone. And certainly not with England.

_This must be how human teenagers live_, the blue-eyed nation thought to himself, as he and "Iggy" invaded a children's playground and started running amok, laughing rebelliously at the scandalised looks they got from nearby adults. Just totally free to adventure around the city on a Saturday, not a care in the world, going wherever they wanted, doing whatever they felt like.

Sure, as the representative of an entire country, America had freedoms unknown to most people: he could go out in a city and be granted access into almost any building, buy practically anything he pleased, rub elbows with the best and brightest.

And yet somehow that didn't feel as important or exciting as what he was doing right now, even though this was far more ordinary.

Wandering through a city as a nation entitled to pass through any door was entirely different to running around with a friend enjoying yourself. This was a completely different kind of freedom – and America had to admit, it was one that he found himself preferring. Free to roam wherever the streets led them; cheating and risking their way into private places if the mood took them; not worrying about world politics and work and how little time America ever got to relax and let loose like this.

He was only 19, but he had the weight of a big part of the world on his shoulders. He should have more days like this – a day that felt like it existed outside of his normal life. A day to go out with a friend and enjoy himself.

And today the green-eyed nation really was his friend.

Of course, he'd considered England a friend for a century. But…well, they couldn't exactly hang out like _this_. Their friendship was more the kind that comes from knowing each other forever and getting along in general, rather than having things in common and being able to have fun together. (And, of course, if one of them happened to be secretly in love with the other, then that just might make the friendship a little awkward, because it was hard to be really carefree around someone if you were worried about slipping up and revealing yourself.)

And yeah, America could go over to England and tease him for a laugh, and once every so often they could meet up for drinks, or a new show or exhibition if one of them had something they wanted to show off.

But it certainly wasn't like _this_. And America – feeling a little ashamed, as if he were betraying 21st century England somehow – found it pretty refreshing.

* * *

><p>The late afternoon found America running for his life, trying to escape some mounted policemen because Iggy had decided he wanted to piss off the horses.<p>

England was at his side, hooting with laughter and taunting the pursuing officers who tried to chase them through the busy streets of London – pedestrians and cars slowing them down and aiding the blondes in their escape.

This was something that America hadn't done in a _loooong_ time: trying to outrun angry men on horseback. It took him back to his days in the Old West…

Feeling more youthful and alive than ever, he raced down an alley after England, where they practically flew over a chain link fence and off to freedom, leaving the policemen far behind.

England grabbed America's hand and dragged him over to the massive crowd milling about on the large front steps of an impressive museum. They could wait here for a while, hiding in plain sight, until the policemen eventually gave up looking for them.

"Stuck up pricks," England was ranting, but looking flushed and accomplished.

"The cops?" America panted, trying to catch his breath. (England didn't look nearly as tired from the chase as _he_ did, for some reason. Maybe the saying was true: you really _are_ as old as you feel.)

"No, the horses!" England raged. "They think they're so much _better_ than all the other animals in my countryside, just because they look a bit like unicorns. Well, they're _nothing_ compared to the unicorns. _Nothing_! If anyone had ever actually _seen_ a unicorn they'd know. The basic shape is the same, but the aura around them makes it so…"

England was going off on one, and America didn't have anything to add (and knew full well that he wasn't supposed to). So he just sat there, hunched over on the steps amidst the thick crowd, but so intent on watching England that he didn't notice the bustle and noise around them at all.

England was amazing like this. He looked just like his usual self. Carried away in his own argument, eyes alight and fierce, scrunching his hands and eyebrows with passion.

America wasn't aware that he was leaning closer and closer, his eyelids lowering, spellbound, as he watched England rant.

"I can't abide those arrogant arses, lording it over the other animals. I bet _you_ love them…idiot…"

He had turned to face America, trailing off when he found the other so close that their noses were touching.

"Yeah, I do," America breathed, and kissed him.

There was no crazed hunger like there had been last night. Just lips brushing, then pressing, then tugging at each other for a moment. America started it, and England happily joined in, knowing he couldn't get the blame for this one.

America pulled away first, letting out a long breath through his mouth – longer than necessary after such a short kiss. _Almost_ like a sigh.

And then his eyes slowly opened wide in panic as realisation sank in.

"I-I'm so sorry!" he stammered, sitting up rigidly, scooting back to a safe, normal distance – a 'just friends' distance. "I...I just…God, after everything I told you about not just doing whatever you wanted! I'm sorry; I don't know what I was thinking."

"That's quite alright, my little hypocrite," England said, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. He couldn't let the smile spread too far, because he was worried it might prove to be a real one, an honestly happy one. And that would _never_ do. "I know how irresistible I can be."

America glanced at him, hopefully. England was willing to let it slide, turn into a joke, a mistake. And he jumped at the chance – not wanting to think about the implications of what he'd just done.

"Ha ha. Yeah, right," he laughed, sounding too breathy. He stood up quickly – wanting to get away from this spot. "Come on, Iggy. Let's get outta here."

England got up and picked his way down the crowded stairs, following after America who was already far ahead.

* * *

><p>AN: So who else is enjoying these perpetual Code Oblivions during Christmas Bloodbath?

Next chapter will be up next week.


	4. Saturday Night

* ~ Saturday Night ~ *

As sunset fell over the city in cold and dusty colours, America took Iggy to ride on the London Eye.

And that was when the world came crashing down around him.

England was pressed up against the glass of their capsule, head whipping around in all directions to take in the futuristic landscape of his beloved capital. He looked like a kid in a candy store – a kid who had heard stories about candy but never seen it or believed in it until now.

America had pulled his 'nation strings' to get them a private capsule, and was sitting on the bench in the middle of it. He'd been on the London Eye before, and even though he would never get tired of it splendid views, it just couldn't compare to the one he had of England right now.

He looked just…perfect. The way he had always wanted England to look after a day they spent together.

And America realised that not only was _he_ enjoying himself in a surprisingly natural and human way today, but so was England.

America had never seen the other nation like this. He wondered if anyone had.

Laughing at everything. Being spontaneous. Talking to everyone like they were old friends. Admitting easily that he liked McDonald's and the blockbuster which America had taken him to see. Suggesting crazy, fun things to do. Breaking almost every rule that got in his way of having a good time. And right now he was pointing down at something far below them, chattering excitedly and smiling at America over his shoulder before turning back to the window…

England was having fun. England was smiling, laughing, joking, happy.

For a moment, it made America's heart feel light…before it plummeted to the soles of his feet at a speed that made him feel almost dizzy.

If it was so _incredible_ that England was happy right now, then what did that say about the island nation the rest of the time?

_Please, don't think about it_, he begged himself. _Don't put it into words or you'll never forgive yourself. _

It was a good day, no need to ruin everything with depressing thoughts, you're just worrying too much, he's not even here so there's nothing you can do about it. _Just don't think about it._

_Please._

_But England is unhappy…_

The words exploded into America's head and burned there, their shrivelled black roots burrowing deep and tightening around his heart and refusing to let go.

_England is unhappy._

He tried to ignore it and focus back on the world around him – but it seemed so sad and grey now.

_Because England is unhappy._

No matter what excuse he tried to find, or how he worded it to himself, the same sentence kept bursting into the forefront of his mind like a neon sign flashing on and off, on and off – but even when it wasn't on, he still knew it was there. As he watched _this_ England breeze around him without a care in the world, it made him want to despair, and that was something America very rarely did.

_Look at him right now. I've never seen him like this. I've never seen him be __happy__ before…_

America's throat began to hurt from holding in a sob at that pathetic and devastating thought.

He didn't know why, didn't know whose fault it was, or if it was just the weariness of a thousand years of living. But it was clear now.

_England is unhappy._

_And I didn't do anything to help. I didn't even notice._

_Oh, God…_

He teased him, made fun of him, ganged up on him with other nations. He thought it was just for fun, but all this time England had been unhappy. He must have hurt him so, so badly.

_How could I do that to him? __I didn't even notice!_

"America!"

America was so surprised to hear England's voice, especially so strong and commanding, that he jumped. He'd forgotten the nation was (sort of) right here with him.

"W-what?" And America realised in horror that some tears had started to escape.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you _crying_?"

"I…"

If America opened his mouth to continue he was going to lose the fight against the flood he was holding back. So instead he stood up and yanked the other man into his arms. England flailed ungracefully before crashing into the other's chest, feeling the younger one cling to him and not knowing what to do or where to put his hands.

It was not so much to comfort England, since the shorter blonde had no idea what was going on. But America just needed to be close to him for a moment.

"I'm so sorry," he managed to rasp out, head buried into England's shoulder, hands clutching at the back of his shirt. "Stay as long as you want, Iggy. You should get to have a break. Have some fun."

_It's only a temporary break, though_, America's brain whispered to him. This wouldn't fix the problem: England would have to go back to normal tomorrow, be unhappy again, and there was nothing America could do to help him, apparently. And he would have to live with that, just as England had to live with his unhappiness.

America gripped the other nation tighter. It wasn't fair…

"There, there," England said – and even through the fiery headache he was getting from holding in a break down, America could hear the intentionally condescending tone of voice. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with you, but you might want to think how scary this looks to me. You crying all of a sudden and saying you're sorry and that I need a break – makes me think something terrible happened to me in the future that I don't know about."

America pulled back quickly, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "No! No! Well…yeah, I guess. But I just meant…"

He chanced a glance at England's face, which betrayed a hint of worry. Yet the older nation still quirked an eyebrow and a smile in fake amusement – pretending that this could all be a light-hearted joke, and that America wasn't genuinely distressed. He was offering to move on and forget about this, if America wanted. England seemed to have been letting him off the hook a lot today, when America slipped up.

"I'm just being stupid."

Their capsule came to a halt at that moment, and the two men stepped away from each other and headed back out into the darkening world of London at night.

"I think it's time for a drink, don't you?" England smiled.

* * *

><p>Naturally, they ended up in Camden Town, as if England were being drawn to the hub of alternative culture for the rebellious and independent youth of his capital.<p>

"Where did you get these clothes, anyway?" America ventured to ask, as they sat at the bar in a small, crowded pub.

England glanced down at his outfit – the torn knees of his jeans, ragged t-shirt, wristbands and leather jacket he had donned for their excursion today. "Found 'em in the wardrobe. Right at the back."

"In _England's_ wardrobe?" America exclaimed in disbelief, choking on his beer.

"I know," England grimaced, shaking his head. "God, I've seen pictures of the bloke, and…Jesus Christ. The man needs to get laid or something."

"Hey, he's not so bad. Just a little…"

England looked up, waiting for the adjective, but America honestly didn't know what to say. Not when he now knew how England used to be. _What the hell had happened to him, anyway? _What word connected the chasm between these two people?

"Different?" America supplied eventually.

"I'll say."

"But why _these_ clothes?" America pressed. "They're not what I would have thought a pirate captain would pick out."

"'Privateer'" England stressed, doing air quotes around the word and laughing at that old inside joke of his. (Even knowing as little as he did about this part of history, America had gathered that there was a treacherously thin line between 'pirate' and 'privateer.') "They looked like they would command fear and respect," England continued.

"Huh?"

"My captain's wardrobe is designed to be outlandish and excessive to show people how important I am – let them know I have authority. And this outfit, well…" England looked down at himself and plucked at his t-shirt. "When people look at me in this they seem nervous and can't look me in the eye. So…" He smirked, raising his drink and glancing at America over the rim of his glass. "Mission accomplished."

America smiled, enjoying seeing England so confident and carefree, despite being rejected by the people they passed on the street. Regular-England was too hung up on being proper and respectable.

"Besides, punk rock is the shit," added England, matter-of-factly.

"How do you even_ know_ that?" America asked, half surprised, half amused. "I mean, I walk in on you yesterday singing along to The Who and doing freaking air guitar. How do you know _any_ of this stuff?"

"You're a nation," England began, and America nodded unnecessarily. "So you know how your country has different cultures and traditions and accents wherever you go, correct?" Again, America nodded. "As a nation, you can adapt to it: fit in with your people wherever you are. We can become whatever part of our country we go to."

America knew what he meant. His default accent and behaviour could switch at the drop of a hat, whether he was in Dallas or Boston, L.A. or New York. He was a nation: he could belong everywhere in his country.

"Well, it seems to work the same if you go from one _time_ of your country to another, too" England explained. "Not just from place to place. My accent, my turn of phrase, my fashion sense – it's all changed since I got here. It's like I know how people think and act here, even though I've never experienced anything they have before. I know what's cool, I know what's not cool, I understand the mannerisms and the routines…I may be from the 17th century, but I can fit in because this is _my_ country and I will _always_ belong here."

America nodded slowly and silently, taking a long sip of his forgotten beer. That explained why this England sounded and acted so modern, then. He'd begun to think that maybe regular-England was beginning to surface already, but apparently it was just the usual adaptation abilities every nation shared.

"Your grammar is still too good for a 21st century teenager, though," America said with a smile.

"Well, excuse _me_ for enjoying being coherent."

America laughed. "I'm plenty coherent. You just need to loosen up more."

It was the sort of thing he would have said to regular-England, and it would have been a joke. But as soon as the words left his mouth this time, he realised it was a dangerous thing to say to _this_ England. Like an invitation. A challenge that the shorter blonde was more than capable of beating. Effortlessly.

Sure enough, England raised an eyebrow at him, and America knew he would be taken up on that unintentional offer.

The green-eyed nation crossed his legs elegantly, leaning in a little towards America and making it look unintentional. He rested his chin delicately in his hand and looked up at America through lowered lashes. The coy attitude was so obviously fake, but it still looked damn good.

"I suppose I could try and do that. For _you_, America."

America laughed. It was funny, after all. Even if he couldn't help falling for it a little. "England, are you trying to seduce me?"

"Oh, I don't have to try," England smiled at him, and America smiled back. Because it _was_ funny, after all. Funny and true and a little depressing because it made his heart ache for missing the real England – the one who would never say something so wonderful to him and yet the one from whom he wanted to hear it.

England didn't urge him to answer. There was nothing that really needed to be said. He glanced around the pub at the chattering Friday crowd. "Well, it's all very quaint in here," he mused. "But I'm up for something a little more…exciting, aren't you?"

America grinned before he could stop himself.

"Sounds like a plan."

* * *

><p>Whatever England was looking for, he didn't find it in any of the cool, underground clubs of Camden Town.<p>

America was sure that he would love the punk scene around here: the hidden venues, the hardcore music, the crazy looking people – even though America, himself, felt a little uncomfortable.

But every club they went into, no matter how big or small, dark or well-lit, quiet or loud, England was never satisfied. America kept catching the shorter man throwing glances at him, like he was looking for America's reaction to every club they visited. But he brushed it off, thinking that England was just turning pirate-y and predatory again. America made a mental note to himself to watch out.

Eventually, England had decided he wanted to try something and somewhere completely different, and they ended up (in the magical way adventures with Iggy seemed to always turn out) at a hip new club in the West End, full of up-and-coming British celebrities.

How they had managed to bypass the incredible line outside, America wasn't sure. One moment, England was dragging him down a cold, dark side-street. The next, America was left at a bar ordering them a couple of insanely overpriced drinks as England disappeared into a crowd of rich young things pulsing to the beat of some mainstream dance music.

America wasn't too worried at losing sight of England.

Not for the first drink, whilst he chatted with some brunette who was on a popular British soap opera.

Or the second drink, when he was approached by the beautiful red-headed star of the West End's latest hit production.

But with his third drink in hand, America started moving around the edge of the dance floor, peering into the mass of people and trying to spot his lost friend.

Or not 'lost', it seemed, when he finally got a glimpse of unfashionably shaggy blonde hair through the crowd. Not lost. Just busy.

There was England, as America had never seen him before. It was hard to believe it was the same person, in fact, though he looked so much like the man he knew. So much so that it was disturbing considering what he was doing.

The way the Brit's body undulated in pulsating waves, the way he swayed and rolled his hips with the music, and ground his backside purposefully and tortuously into the man behind him – and the way another big guy joined in from the front, hands curling around England's waist, slipping a knee in between the green-eyed nation's legs and pressing until England's head rolled back and he gasped around a wanton smile…

It was horrible.

It was like seeing England's body be taken over by some sinful force, turning a proud and dignified man into a tool for something dirty and shameful, his body being used for something primal and degrading against his own will.

It looked like England – it looked _so_ much like him – and the mind controlling that body still belonged to the same person but…

It _wasn't_ the same person. England would never let himself get carried away in physical pleasure like that, never lose control and give himself over to two men he barely knew, let them do whatever they want with him…

And sure, the teenage England was probably used to this kind of thing – casual sex with casual partners. But that didn't give him the right to use England's body like he used his own.

It was like Iggy had no respect for his future self, didn't care about him at all. Like he actually _wanted_ to humiliate him and give his body over as a plaything to someone else in order to shame the other nation when he returned. Because America was sure that teenage-England preferred being dominant – a growing empire like himself so bent on power and independence. So why was he throwing himself at these two strange men, looking desperate – begging, almost – for them to take him how they pleased?

It was almost like he _hated_ the England from the future and wanted to destroy everything he was…

As much as Iggy was going to kill him for this, America knew he had to protect his old friend – even it was from himself.

He pushed his way through the crowd, eyes intent on the golden haired man in front of him. Once there, he latched on to Iggy's arm determinedly, and lust-hazy green eyes looked up at him. England bit his lip as the man at his back sucked on his neck from behind.

"Come with me, Iggy," America said, trying to sound gentle, but making it clear that it was not a suggestion.

England made no move to answer, so America just tore him out from between the hot, sweating bodies sandwiching him in place. The men looked ready to complain, but America shot them a glare that was unfamiliar to his bright blue eyes, but no less menacing because of that.

England, looking bleary and surprisingly small all of a sudden, let the taller nation guide him off the dance floor, through the crowds around the bar, and back out into the night – now so much colder after the heat and sweat from inside.

America decided that they had had enough for one night. Staying out later, even if he kept a closer eye on his friend, was only going to end in trouble.

It was time to go home.

He opened the door to one of the taxis idling outside the club, and pushed the smaller blonde inside before sliding in after him and giving the driver England's address.

He leant back against the black seats, feeling surprisingly exhausted and worn out and worried. He didn't want to think about what might have happened if England went off with those men, or found someone else to play with him. He could have lost him so easily, or Iggy could have refused to go back with him, and America wouldn't have been able to protect England from what the dangerous teenager wanted to do with him.

And _is this how he lived back then?_ America tried not to think about it, but the thought trickled through his mind like poison. Did he go out all the time, fucking and getting fucked by random people and enjoying it, over and over, night after night, for decades…

England living like that? It was enough to make him sick and his stomach turn in jealousy and worry.

A weight landed gently against his shoulder, and he jumped, shocked out of his tumbling thoughts.

England was leaning against his arm. Snuggling, in fact.

"You looking after me, America?" the other nation murmured, sounding half asleep. "You good boy."

America didn't even think about – though he couldn't have stopped himself if he did; he pulled his arm out from underneath England's weight, only to wrap it around the smaller man's shoulder and pull him closer.

There was no need to worry: forget about what _might_ have happened. England was here now, not off with some strange men. Right here, falling asleep against his chest in the back of a taxi. America _would_ look after him. That was all he wanted to be given the chance to do.

When the taxi pulled up to England's house some time later, America prepared himself to have to carry the dozing island nation inside and up to bed.

But to his surprise, when the car pulled to a stop and he leant forward to pay the driver, Iggy sat up, wide awake. America stared after him in confusion as England opened his car door, got out, and strolled up the steps to wait for America at his front door. He'd thought the other man was asleep the entire time: his unusual affection, gentle breathing, letting America hold him close…He should have started to feel suspicious, since the other nation had clearly been putting on an act. But instead, he just felt dazed – caught in whatever spell England had pulled over his eyes.

The driver coughed, bringing America back to himself, and he shoved over a wad of bills before hurrying after England.

Why was he hurrying? England wasn't going anywhere. Why did he keep his eyes trained on him, as if waiting for England to tell him what to do? Why did he suddenly feel so full of…anticipation?

He stood next to Iggy on the top door step, looking down at the green eyed nation uncertainly, while the other stared pointedly at the door.

"You have the keys, idiot."

It took a moment for this sentence to register in America's bemused state. He jammed his hands in his pockets, fumbling around for the cold metal, and eventually got the door open.

America held the door open for England, and followed him inside, not registering that it was slightly odd how England didn't turn on the lights, or move further than a few steps into the hallway.

America locked the door behind him and turned back to find England leaning against the wall. In the darkness of the house, America could only faintly see England's face, lit by the streetlamps shining through the small square window in the front door. His body was just a dark shadow against the paler shadow of the wall. But those eyes gleamed bright as ever in the empty black space around them. Or maybe it was just that America could picture those eyes so well in his mind that he could see them as he knew they should be. No matter where he was, he could always picture those eyes.

He stood, waiting.

"So. You've managed to get me all to yourself, America."

He couldn't see England's mouth moving in the dark. He felt an almost irresistible urge to touch him and make sure he wasn't just imagining all this.

England turned a little more towards him, and now America could definitely see those piercing green eyes.

"Now what are you going to do with me?"

America didn't think about it this time. Not like last night. There was no moral dilemma anymore. They'd both had drinks today, they both wanted it, and it wasn't _just_ England he was thinking about right now: it was Iggy, too. He wanted to show Iggy how precious he could be. He didn't have to live with being a tool for pleasure – America could make him see how good it could really be, when he let someone care about him.

So this time, America didn't feel the slightest hesitation in striding forwards, lifting England up under his thighs and pushing him against the wall before falling into his waiting kiss.

It was frenzied – even more so than the night before. England's legs were wrapped so tight around America's waist that it felt like they might cling to him forever. America surged up and into the smaller nation as England pressed back down to meet him, and they rubbed against each other in desperation for that friction that would send them to the next step that they wanted to reach so badly. Their mouths were everywhere, America had no control over where he was kissing, he just couldn't stop. And those gasps and moaning grunts England keened out were driving him wild, and he wished that they could just communicate like that forever, because England would be sure of how America felt about him if they could make such honest and uncontrolled noises to each other all the time.

"Ah, A-America," England practically whined, and America thought that nothing they could possibly do together would ever be enough to satisfy him.

One particularly hard thrust, and the feeling of heat and hardness, and England slithered off America – off his waist, but somehow further up into him at the same time, moulding against his chest and pulling America down with his arms around his neck into a heated kiss that they didn't break, even as England walked backwards, leading America up the stairs.

They crashed into walls and doors and a chest of drawers on the way, but finally they were on the bed, England writhing underneath America without the other nation even touching him yet.

It was partly for show, but America didn't mind. That was okay.

"Show me you want me, America," England managed to breath out, voice so low and husky that America had to attack the other's face and neck with his mouth and tongue and teeth for several minutes before he could let the other finish speaking.

"Show me how much…you want to protect me."

Did he really mean that? America wondered, peppering kisses along the other's hot, flushed neck. It was just what America _wanted_ to do, but it seemed so unlike the wilful, dominant, empire Iggy – _and_ the lonely, proud island England, come to that. Surely he didn't want anyone _protecting_ him?

Unless he was just after the novelty of having a partner who actually gave a damn about him…

America leant down and pressed their foreheads together as they just breathed in against each other for a long moment, deep and quick and ragged. America had his eyes closed, and when he opened them, he found England looking back at him, with hooded eyes to hide what might have been honesty he thought he saw in there. "Look after me, America."

It came a little late, but finally America understood: England didn't mean any of this. He was just trying to reel America in, make sure he wouldn't back out this time.

No wonder Iggy was saying exactly what America wanted to hear. He must have been watching him _all_ day, without America realising. Figuring him out. Scheming how to get what he wanted.

He must have noticed how America wanted to respect modern-England's wishes last night, not push them into anything the older nation would regret when he returned; he had seen how America decided to stay with him for the weekend and help him and make sure the spell ended like it was supposed to; and when America randomly broke down in tears on the London Eye, he must have realised America was sad for him, worried about him…

That was why he didn't want to stay in a club in Camden Town – because there wasn't the opportunity to get America worked up and protective. All that at the club, making a display of himself with those two guys: it wasn't because England was that horny and depraved.

It was because he wanted to give America the opportunity to look like a hero.

Because the devious nation must have figured out that if he wanted to hook America in, then he had to let the taller nation feel like he was taking care of him, like this was an emotional experience rather than a sordid fling. Let America show that he cared. Let him think this was something more meaningful and romantic than a quick drunk fuck.

That England…He was so sneaky.

And yet America didn't care that he had been tricked into thinking it was a mutual decision. Didn't care that he had let himself fall into England's trap.

So maybe this would have happened whether he wanted it to or not. The fact was he _did_ want it. God, did America want to show England how good this could be, how much he could care about him and protect him. He couldn't help the real England, the one who was so unhappy. But maybe he could get through to _this_ England – this England who clearly had problems and insecurities of his own and still deserved love that America wanted to give him.

Iggy might have used America's feelings as a way to lure him in, but he didn't count on America using them right back, to actually give him what he'd asked for, to turn this into way more than just a quick fumble.

England had underestimated America's love. It may have been a good for him to manipulate the naïve nation, but it was also a way to get through to England in return.

"Iggy," he whispered, leaning down to kiss the smaller nation softly on the cheek.

England looked taken aback, like he hadn't expected quite this level of gentleness. He squirmed under the alien sense of intimacy as America pressed their faces together, cheek to cheek, and breathed him in. The bigger nation held himself carefully over top of England's body, touching him nowhere but his face, and leaving the rest of England feeling cold and bare and vulnerable.

Which was new, to the fiery island empire.

And..._almost_ scary. Almost.

England wasn't quite sure what to do.

He had been so content with the ways things were going – his physical desires taking over, well used to this, so he didn't have to think at all.

But now that he had given control to America to encourage the naïve nation to keep going, he found that the younger nation was actually going to use it. Give him that for which he had asked. He hadn't believed he could actually do it – he had taken America's feelings for granted as a way to get him into bed – but it looked like America was really going to try. Try to take care of him the way no one ever had.

And now England found his body shutting down and his brain not shutting up.

America raised himself up again and England's breath hitched a sigh of relief. But then the bigger nation just moved to the other side, pressing their cheeks together again, breathing in once more, this time whispering "England" like he really honestly gave a shit about him.

England's breath was coming short and fast – not in excitement, but in panic. His heart raced and it wasn't pleasure, though he didn't want to give a name to what he thought it might be. And as America finally touched him – warm fingertips caressing his neck and brushing his collarbone – England had to choke back a sound he didn't want to make, and the effort of doing so sapped away his ability to pretend he didn't want this.

"A-America," he shivered, reaching up to dig his fingers into America's hair, a leg wrapping around America's waist and pulling him down.

They kissed, mouth to mouth, slow and needy and unlike any kiss either of them had ever had before. And when they broke apart America whispered one more word: "Arthur."

England gasped, his body went rigid in shock, and his heart stretched and strained painfully in his chest, not knowing whether to buckle in joy or break in anger.

He shoved America off him and rolled away, clumsily, until they were on opposite sides of the bed. England crouched with one leg on the bed, the other one on the floor, poised ready to flee. America knelt there, confused and unsure and wanting England back with him where he belonged.

"What…What the hell do you think you're doing?" England said, voice barely above a whisper, whether he intended it or not.

America could tell by the other's wide eyes and the way England was still leaning a little bit towards him, not entirely determined on running away, that England was just as confused as him.

"I…I don't know what you – "

"How dare you call me that!" England shouted, louder and louder, and it was clear that his confusion was falling back on what he knew best: anger, resentment, rejection. "Like some fucking _human_! Who the _hell_ do you think you are?"

"But that's your name, isn't it?" America said softly, knowing that he was pleading as he inched closer. "That's who you are, too. Iggy, England, Arthur – it's all you. You gotta understand, I want _all_ of you." And it was _so_ important that England understood, because maybe it would make him happy, to know someone accepted and loved every piece of him. Not just the obvious world-changing parts, but the way he potted around at home when the world didn't need him centre stage. "Not just because you're England, some great empire, but because – "

"But I _am_ England!" the other raged, eyebrows scrunched indistinguishably together. "I wouldn't be _me_ if I weren't England! I am the way I am because of this country, not because I'm…" He trailed off, as if saying the name of his human alias were a physical pain to him.

"It's okay, England" said America, softly, the way you would speak to a frightened animal. "It's _okay_. I told you, we're allowed to be human now. We're allowed to have our own thoughts and feelings and hopes and ideas. I don't care about you just because you're a great nation. I care about you because of who you are. And I want you to do the same for me. I _want_ to be Alfred sometimes."

England's eyes grew wider, impossibly, the green outshone for once by the white of his pupils…

He looked horrified. Disgusted.

And Alfred could only stare back, not knowing how to make it better.

Where this England was from, it was obviously _not_ okay to be a nation that wanted to be human. Regular-England would have understood, might have felt a little happier to know what Alfred was trying to say. But this England…Humans were a lesser species to him. For Alfred to want them to be like that – it was so wrong.

"Arthur I – " It was a mistake. He hadn't meant to say that. And he even as he reached out to grab England, he knew the battle was over.

"Don't touch me!" England yanked his arm even further out of reach, and stood up. "You're…You're a _freak_, America!"

And with that, he stormed out of the room and was gone, leaving nothing but the echo of a slamming door and a sleepless night for America.

* * *

><p>AN:

More cocklblocking emotions? RARGH! I hate that in fanfics, so why do I put it in mine? SUCH a hypocrite!

I'm not entirely happy with how this fanfic looks - on a purely aesthetic level. I want the line breaks to be ***s instead of lines but it won't let me. And I also want to add a space before and after each one, so the text isn't sof reaking crammed together; but for some reason whenever I add an extra space or br kinda thing, it deletes it. Hmmmm...

Anyway, that's just me moaning about being a n00b, I guess.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter.


	5. Sunday

* ~ Sunday ~ *

This morning it was America's turn to wander into the kitchen late and attempt to ignore the awkward atmosphere. He doubted that England had felt this nervous when _he_ was doing it, though.

He nodded to England, who lifted his gaze to meet America's, and murmured a brief "'Morning" which came out far too cracked and shaky. Then he shuffled around getting his coffee, hoping it looked like he was just tired and lazy rather than utterly exhausted. He had barely slept a wink, and when he did, it was completely restless.

To his surprise, England was the first to break the silence again as they sat opposite each other at the small round table.

"It's clear that we come from different backgrounds," he said, somewhat mysteriously. America just nodded once, slowly, a confused frown rippling its way across his brow. "Our cultures are obviously vastly different and…I think it would be best if we just did what we did yesterday: agree to disagree. It just seems that you won't understand me on this matter, and _I_ certainly won't understand _you_, so let's…how did you phrase it?... 'just stop talking and get on with it'?"

America's wrinkled brow was wiped smooth again as his eyes widened.

They were just going to forget about it? As easy as that would make life for everyone concerned it just seemed wrong. Ignoring it wasn't going to benefit anyone, and he knew the memory would fester inside both of them all day. He didn't want what had been an attempt to _help_ England to backfire so badly and cause them both pain.

And he didn't really _know_ this England, but this seemed almost like he was running away. Like he was afraid to confront what happened last night. Did that mean he _wanted_ to forget it or he was just too nervous to talk about it?

It seemed that, once again, America had made a mistake, and England was offering a way out. And so far, America had always taken him up on the offer.

But did he really want to this time?

_No_, he answered himself instantly. He didn't want a way out. He wanted to talk about this until he was blue in the face, until England _understood_ how much America cared and was trying to help. He wanted England to understand where he was coming from. It was just a cultural misunderstanding that had driven them apart last night, and he didn't want something like _that_ to come between them and ruin all the progress he could make here.

"I want to explain myself first," he decided, out loud.

England visibly gulped, and America didn't know what to think about that. How the tables had turned…

"You…I mean, when I said your human name last night it obviously freaked you out." It was freaking him out now, quite clearly. England's eyes were roving around the kitchen, looking anywhere but at him. He was a completely different man to that cool and confident teenage sea captain from yesterday.

"But you gotta appreciate, Iggy, it was just…just a misunderstanding. To me, to us nations _now_, it's not a _bad _thing, the whole human name deal. It's…It means we see each other as more than just a country, just a personification of a piece of land. Because when that's all you were to each other, _that's_ what caused problems. That's why you treated each other so bad. You weren't people, so it didn't matter what you did to each other. But now, our human names are special to us, you know? It's a badge that means we're not completely unemotional objects. _We_ count, too. Just like other people count to each other. We can…feel whatever we want about each other without politics getting in the way. I can just be Alfred to you, and you can just be Arthur. No matter what the rest of the world or history says."

England's gaze had settled in his lap, and since he was looking down, it was impossible for America to read his expression. Not that he had ever been very good at that – especially in regards to England.

"I know you might not really get it, and there's no reason you should because it's completely different to your experience. All I'm asking is that you just…understand that I didn't mean to…I didn't mean anything bad." A long pause. "Okay?"

Finally, England looked up. Face blank.

"I understand."

America nodded, feeling slightly better. But now that that was sorted, it _still_ didn't feel like the issue was really settled. Something was nagging at him in the back of his mind, but he couldn't figure out what it was that needed to be explained still.

"It's just a little ironic that you consider being human '_more'_ than being a nation, when that's the opposite of how _we_ think." England sighed quietly, and took a quick sip of tea, as if it were his own personal brand of liquid courage. He placed the cup back down and locked eyes with America again.

"So 'stop talking and get on with it' now, right?" England asked, his face still unreadable.

America sighed inwardly. "Yeah…I guess."

"Wonderful. Now then, about today: I have some business to attend to downstairs, so you can entertain yourself however you like. I should warn you, though, that that…what's it called…'teevee?'…is all unplugged because England wrote in his letter that he didn't want me learning too much about the past by accident."

"It's not like you can change anything, you're not going _back_ there," America wondered out loud. "Why would he be so bent up over you finding out about the past few centuries?"

"Lord only knows what goes through that man's head."

"How the hell did you keep yourself busy for 5 days before I got here?" asked America. He couldn't imagine _one_ day without television, let alone the better part of a week!

"The other one made sure to leave plenty of alcohol – even for me. (Though I use the word 'alcohol' loosely – it's not a _scratch_ on the stuff from my time.) And then, of course, he has quite the stash of erotic novels. More than 5 days' worth of good reading, I assure you," he said, his signature smirk finally gracing his mouth once more.

America saw it, and was so relieved that England was back to somewhat-normal that it was several minutes before a new question sprang to his mind. England was turning the handle of the basement door when America appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking confused.

"What do you mean you have 'business downstairs'?"

"Magic," England said, simply, opening the door to the dark, narrow staircase. "I saw lots of interesting things down there when I woke up. The other one said I couldn't study history; he didn't say anything about magic."

* * *

><p>America fixed the TV and watched a few hours of Sunday afternoon movies. But he quickly discovered that he couldn't get into any of them.<p>

He wasn't exactly bored. 'Restless' was more like it.

England was trying to seem so casual about everything that had happened yesterday. As if America trying to show him some real care and tenderness for once hadn't affected him at all. It was _possible_ that it hadn't, but America thought differently.

Yes, England was a stubborn and proud man at the best of times. And as a practically-pirate teenager, it was multiplied a hundredfold. But America knew that this England had just as many issues as the regular one, so of _course_ he would be moved by America trying to show that he cared about him. Even regular England would be touched if America could ever muster up the courage to tell him how much he adored him – even if he didn't return the feelings. It was always a pleasant shock to the system to know that somebody who didn't have to cared very deeply about you.

And England had even admitted on Friday night that nobody had ever cared before. When England was _with_ someone like that, it was because he was taking them, or being taken. There was no _giving_ involved. And certainly no sharing.

But even if they'd gone all the way last night and he'd managed to show England what making love was supposed to be, he knew it would not have been beneficial to anyone.

America didn't know how this England felt about him. Perhaps it was just lust and some kind of routine respect for another nation: in which case sleeping together last night wouldn't have accomplished anything. It really would have been falling into Iggy's trap and letting him have his own way. But if Iggy actually felt any emotional attachment to him at all, then…God, then America would have made a big mistake last night. He didn't love Iggy and yet he wanted to show him how much he cared about him, how good they could be together. Talk about leading him on! America's "help" would have destroyed the poor bastard when in the morning light he had to take it all back and tell Iggy he couldn't wait for the _real_ England to come home. The one he really wanted to be with.

It was enough to make America genuinely hope that Iggy didn't care about him at all…

But putting Iggy's feelings aside (because honestly they were a little scary to think about), how would last night have affected America?

He didn't think he would have regretted it, per se. It was still an England who needed to be shown some love and kindness, and America would give him that if he asked for it – no matter which version of the green eyed nation it happened to be. If he slept with teenage England, and it made the other nation happy, then he couldn't regret his actions.

But it still wouldn't have been anywhere near what _America_ wanted. It wouldn't have made _him_ happy or satisfied him in the right way.

Because it wasn't _his_ England – or the England he wished he could all '_his_', at any rate.

It sounded crazy in America's head. Surely they were the same person, so it wouldn't make a difference if it was _this_ England or _that_ England. He should love them both equally, right? In fact, it would be _good_ to love both of them. It would be like 'true love' if he fell in love with this England, too – it would prove that England really was the one for him, in any shape or form or stage of memory loss.

Surely, it was crazy _not_ to love this England?

But even though America thought it was wrong of him, thought it was selfish and proved he didn't love England enough…he just couldn't help feeling that this was not the same. That it wasn't _enough_.

America was glad that he had gotten to know this England. Iggy was a fierce and independent free-spirit, and it was something America could relate to completely. Iggy was so…so awesome! America quickly found himself looking up to the smaller and (technically) younger nation like he was the cool kid in school. He would definitely miss his new friend when he was gone, because America had fun with him, and Iggy was great company.

But he didn't feel about him the way he felt for _his_ England.

And that was the point, wasn't it.

_His_ England.

America had not fallen in love with _his_ England because he made a fun friend.

Neither had he fallen in love with England _because_ of the history they shared together – England as his guardian, the long separations, happy homecomings, revolution, world wards, alliances…Those shared memories weren't _necessary_ for him to love England, nor were they what made his England so important to him.

But the fact was that _was_ their history together. That was what had made them who they were today.

If England were to forget all of that…He would still be England, and America was sure he would love him, anyway – because he loved England for himself, not because of events that could be remembered and forgotten.

But that was not how it was _meant_ to be. Without those memories, England would not be the _real_ England. This is who he was, who he was _supposed_ to be – even if he was unhappy being it – and America had fallen in love with him because the real England was perfect to him.

If this spell somehow went wrong and Iggy ended up staying forever…God, how he would mourn the loss of the one he loved. Even though England would not have died, would still be right there with him…America would be heartbroken. And he knew he would never get over it. _His_ England would be gone.

_Oh!_

America sat up quickly – head spinning slightly from the movement after having been lying on the sofa for so long.

_That_ was what he wanted to say at breakfast this morning! _This_ is what had been nagging at him, being left unsaid because America didn't know it needed to be spoken.

He had to tell Iggy that he didn't love him, because he loved England. That he was glad to have met him, but he couldn't wait for England to come home. And, finally, he was sorry for betraying him: betraying his future self…with his younger self…

It made sense in his head, anyway.

He wasn't sure that Iggy would understand – he didn't really seem to grasp the fact that America actually cared about him. But as dense as America could be about these things, he realised that Iggy was upset with him. As happy as he was to accept America's attentions at the moment, Iggy must be living with the uncomfortable and mistaken belief that the only person who had ever cared about him was willing to cheat on him with a younger, easier model.

Well, he was going to set things straight, America decided, rushing over to the basement door and swinging it wide. Tell Iggy he couldn't and wouldn't be with him like that because he was in love with England. He'd been ready to show him what love was last night, but not because it was _Iggy_, but because it was part of _England_ who needed help. And he was sorry for leading him on, making it seem like he loved _him_; he had just been trying to make him feel better last night – better than the currently unhappy England, who America apparently couldn't save…

He almost fell all the way down the basement stairs in his rush to get to the other nation. Even so, the creepy feeling that always stifled England's basement was enough to calm even America's impressive haze of determination. He slowed down – it felt wrong to be loud and clumsy down here – and walked carefully toward England.

The smaller nation was sitting on the floor, his back to America. A few books were scattered around him, still open on random pages, and one on which he was focused– a ridiculously old and large tome – was lying open in front of him.

"I-Iggy?"

He hoped England wasn't too busy. He needed to get this all out now, prevent any more miscommunications and misunderstandings before they parted on confusing terms. He wanted Iggy to know how much he cared about him, but how loyal and dedicated he was to England. And that it really was a good thing, (Iggy would see for himself in a few hundred years) so by all means, America wanted the real England back.

"I found a way to make it permanent…"

America didn't hear him at first. It was if the words left England's mouth and drifted on the stagnant, charged air in the basement for several long second before finally reaching America's head.

"…Make what permanent?" he asked, heart shuddering in fear and the desperate hope that Iggy didn't mean what America thought he meant…

"The spell. I could make it permanent. I could stay…forever."

America didn't recall willing his body to move. His mind felt trapped, his heart completely stopped. But somehow he found himself kneeling next to England, and peering up at his bowed head to get a look at his face.

England was just staring at the book in front of him. Not reading it at all.

Who knows how long he had just been sitting here thinking it over.

"You want…to stay?"

And just when America had realised how devastated he would be for the rest of his life if that actually happened…The irony was lost on him, because he was too busy feeling each individual piece of his heart crumble inside of him.  
>England remained staring down at the book, as if terrified to tear his eyes from it. His eyebrows twitched worriedly, nervously. He looked as lost as America felt.<p>

"I…I just thought that…Well, I don't seem to be that happy in the future. I'm not an idiot – I know I'm not an empire anymore. Things seem to have gone downhill; it…it feels small here. I suppose that's just the way things go, and I can't get torn up over it but…it feels so lonely. And that's never bothered me before but it does now. Just being here for a week and it's making me admit that I'm lonely, and I've managed to ignore it my entire life until now!"

Finally, England looked up at America. Eyes wet, but trying to mask it with a furious frown, like he was angry rather than sad. "And don't think I haven't noticed that you were the only person who came to check on me when I fell off the map for nearly an entire week! Only one person in the goddamned world cares enough to come see if I'm okay? It's nearly Christmas, for God's sake!"

America found himself hugging the other, but England made no effort to hold him back. After a short moment, he shoved America away and turned to look in the opposite direction.

"After all your bullshit about nations _caring_ about each other now…Somehow I'm _still_ alone? When I was just a nation I could ignore it by passing it off as people being scared of me – and if I made an _effort_ to scare them I could say it was all my idea, anyway. But now that I have to be human, too, people can ignore me and there's no way I can deny it's my fault!"

America couldn't believe that England could say all those things, and think them about himself, and still manage to keep it together. Sure, he was faking being angry to hide how upset he was, but America was impressed. If _he_ were the one in this situation, convinced that everyone hated him, he wouldn't even be able to get out of bed in the morning. England was so brave.

He wished that he knew what to do to make it all better. He wished he could help make England happy again…

_I don't have to help_, he realised, suddenly – so suddenly that it shocked his body into falling back to sit on the floor, stunned. _England's already figured it out himself._

Now he knew why England had cast this spell on himself in the first place.

He hadn't really given it much thought – _why did England want to forget the past four centuries?_ – but now he understood.

England was unhappy, that much he had figured out yesterday. America had wondered how to fix it; England had obviously been thinking about it, too.

And he'd found a solution: take himself back to a time when he was happy. To when he was a free and powerful sea captain, an empire, the world at his feet, young, independent. _That_ was when he was happy.

England had cast that spell to forget everything about his life, to take himself back to the one time when he had been happy. And now he wanted to stay like that. Of course, he did – who wouldn't? Who wouldn't want to be happy, if they found a way?

The spell wasn't meant to be temporary, as America had assumed. England had always planned on making it permanent.

Oh, how he wanted to shake the teenage England and yell at him never to think about that. _Ever_! How _dare_ he try to take England's place?

But if this is what it took to make England happy…

And England had every _right_ to be happy, even if it took such extreme measures to make it happen. If this was the _only_ way, then England _should_ forget everything. That was the right thing to do.

America had failed to make England happy, and now he would never see him again. He couldn't sit here and complain about it: he deserved this. He had had his chance, and he blew it. He didn't deserve the real England, and England didn't deserve to be unhappy. This was for the best…for everyone.

…He just couldn't say that, though. He couldn't come out and say "I agree" when it was worst thing he could ever imagine saying, the last possible plan he would ever agree to, the last thing he would ever want. He couldn't just say "_Yes, please destroy the thing I care about most in the world._" Even if it would _help_ the thing he cared about most in the world.

He was so selfish…

England finally, _finally_, looked at him. America realised he must have been quiet for a long time.

Oh, God, this was exactly the _opposite_ of what he came down here to say. He had wanted to burst in and tell Iggy he was sorry for leading him on, but he didn't love him: he loved England and wanted him back so that he could try and prove it to the one who really needed to see it. Making Iggy happy was just a quick fix; they needed England back so they could focus on the real problem...

And now Iggy was asking him if he could stay, and America had to say yes.

He took a few deep breaths, he lost count of exactly how many. How he had managed to hold back his own tears he wasn't sure, but it was the least he could do for England now – pretend that he was okay with it. Support his decision.

"If you want to stay like this…I understand." He couldn't get the words out to agree with this. But he could at least show England that he understood.

He didn't want it, though.

He wanted the old England back. The _real_ England. _His_ England.

_But that's selfish._ _It's not what England needs! He's better off like this. Better before he even knew me. He should stay like this._

"But I…"

He had started before he could stop himself, but managed to clamp his jaws shut before he went any further. He couldn't just say "_But I won't let you be happy! I want __England__ back! I don't care if it's not what __you__ want!_" because that wouldn't be fair. He needed to make amends for England's unhappiness, and he should start _now_.

But he just couldn't do it.

He grew silent again without really noticing he left his sentence unfinished.

Eventually England shifted and brought America back from the whirlpool of his thoughts.

"I suppose…it's rather a big decision," England admitted. "I suppose, I didn't quite think about how you…uh…feel about the other one."

America felt his face heat up, knowing what England was implying.

"I just thought…" England continued, blushing, himself, but frowning obstinately in that way he seemed to do to disguise when he felt vulnerable. "The way you acted last night…Maybe you wouldn't mind so much if we…if I stayed here?"

"Iggy, you're amazing!" America was surprised at how quickly he responded, through his confused and worried daze. "Getting to know you has been…I wouldn't change it for the world, okay? You gotta believe me. But England is…"

He would have found a way to finish that sentence, even if he had to spew all the most clichéd lines ever spoken, and invent some new ones himself.

But England's frown darkened into seriousness and he obviously didn't want to hear any more. He looked like the scary and wilful sea captain America had met on Friday night.

And yet his next words were surprisingly diplomatic. "Like I said, it's an important decision. Why don't we just…forget about it for now and go have some lunch. And you can show me that _teevee_ thing if it really is like the movie we saw yesterday. And then…later, we can – "

"Yeah," America interrupted, quickly. "Later."

He didn't want to think about later.

* * *

><p>They watched Mary Poppins (one of the only movies England had in his house, <em>and<em> it was on VHS, too…). It was enough to make Iggy forget about their difficult discussion for a while. He was enraptured: staring at the colourful songs and magic bursting to life on the small TV screen. And, in turn, his star-gazed expression was almost enough to wipe America's worries away for a while. He watched the childlike-wonder on England's face and debated how he could possibly live with or without his poor, unhappy older England after this.

After the movie, Iggy was endearingly excited. He wanted to watch another movie, but couldn't sit still, so they went out for a quick walk to get some ice cream from the nearby corner shop, even though it was the middle of December.

America's heart didn't know what to do when Iggy took his hand as they walked through the park.

"That house is so boring."

"W-what?" America stammered, confused.

"England's house," Iggy clarified, as he looked around at the quiet, safe neighbourhood surrounding the park. "I never thought I'd end up somewhere like this."

"You can't live on the high seas forever, Iggy," America smiled, fondly.

"Yes, but I don't have to resign myself to being a senior citizen, either! I mean for fuck's sake: his wardrobe, all his furniture and decorations, his garden…boring! He's got these wild CDs and outrageous novels so you _know_ he wishes his life could be different. But he doesn't do anything about it! I don't know how you can stand to be around someone so dull and pathetic."

"Hey, don't be mean about him!" America defended his friend. It wasn't right to talk like that about someone behind their back, even if you were talking about your future self. "England's a great guy! So what if he likes sweater vests and baking and sewing and doesn't own a DVD player…"

"God, I'm so bloody old here!" Iggy wailed. "How did I get to be so _old_? I used to lie awake and dread the thought of it, you know. It scared me so much. I don't want to be old…" The last part was added quietly, and America knew he was admitting a true fear. He looked genuinely sad, and America's heart twisted painfully.

He had always teased England about being old…It was a joke to him: funny, because England acted so grown up, but denied it.

And all this time, it had been England's worst nightmare…

Come to think of it, if a strong new nation appeared in a few hundred years' time and started rubbing its youth and America's age in _his_ face…well, that would make America pretty depressed, too. It was just the sort of thing an annoying, arrogant child would do.

They fell quiet again, and made their way back to England's 'boring' house, ice creams long gone.

By now it was early evening, and they knew they couldn't put off their dreaded conversation for too long. But they were teenagers, and procrastinating was what they did best.

"How about we watch another movie? Get some take-out?" America suggested hopefully once they were back home, standing awkwardly and silently in the entryway.

"Take-out?"

"Oh, it's awesome!" America said, glad of the distraction and bouncing away to grab some menus he knew England had stashed in the kitchen. "They deliver food right to your house! It's the perfect way to eat when you're having a movie night! Whadda ya want? Pizza? Curry?"

England decided on curry, and they started watching an old James Bond film while they waited.

America didn't have the heart to tell Iggy to go away when the other nation sidled up against him on the sofa and rested his head on the American's shoulder. It was horrible: he didn't want Iggy getting comfortable, thinking this was all okay, fine and dandy, and that America was perfectly happy replacing _his_ England with _this_. But he couldn't say "_Sorry. I don't care about you like that. Leave me alone._" Because he _did_ care. Just not the way Iggy obviously expected him to.

He was glad when the doorbell rang and he could get up and away from Iggy to take care of their dinner.

The curry was delicious, and Iggy was thrilled with the television as they watched one movie after another, and when it was all finally over they were both shocked to realise how late it was.

There was really no putting it off now.

"Let's go upstairs," said England, taking America's hand and holding it in both of his.

"O-okay."

To his horror, Iggy led him to England's bed once again. He didn't want to do this. It was one thing to try and make Iggy happy like last night, but when America was heartbroken, traumatised at the thought of losing England forever, he didn't want to have to do this.

"Don't worry, we're just going to talk," said Iggy, reading the devastated expression America couldn't hide from his face.

England switched on his dim bedside lamp, the only thing lighting the room, casting long shadows over their faces. He crawled onto the bed and sat down in the middle, and America followed, mirroring his position. They were facing each other, sitting cross-legged with a tense space between them. But they couldn't look each other in the eye; they looked in opposite directions, wondering who should start.

"I…" England began, trailing off quickly. America, still not able to look at the other, heard him take a deep, quiet breath. "I'm sorry for taking things into my own hands earlier."

America, really not understanding what he meant, glanced up at Iggy carefully, ready to look away quickly if the other was looking back at him. He wasn't.

"I decided to try making the spell permanent, but that's really not my decision to make. Nor yours, either, so I shouldn't have asked you, in the first place. It's only the other England who can make that decision."

"He did," America admitted, staring down at the bedclothes.

He heard and felt England turn to look at him finally. "What?"

"That's why he cast the spell in the first place. I just know it. He's…He's unhappy. I didn't realise until I met you, but I'm pretty sure he's fucking miserable. And I can't do anything about it. So he cast this spell on himself to take him back to a time when he was happy. So he can live the rest of his life like this. Start over again, kind of, I guess."

"That's preposterous."

America looked up at the other in shock.

"What?"

"I'm 400 years younger than he is, and a tad reckless I've been told, but even I can tell that's a_ terrible_ idea. Bringing a 17th century privateer to run 21st century England?" Iggy scoffed. "Are you off your rocker? That's stupid, he would never do that. Imagine all the trouble it would cause. There's no way I could manage his country, in this time, the way I am now."

"But…then why…"

"America, listen to me." Iggy leaned in a little towards him, reaching out for America's gaze with his own until America felt his head lift up and their eyes met. "I have no doubt that he's unhappy. But you have been asking the wrong question. It's not '_why_ did England want to forget.' It's: '_what_ did he want to forget?'"

America stared into the other's eyes, too surprised and confused to feel self-conscious about it.

"When did we meet, America?"

"1607…"

"Quite convenient that I'm from the period immediately before that, wouldn't you say? Means I don't remember a thing about you." America's heart trembled with the thoughts of what England was suggesting. "Please tell me about us. How did we get to know each other, what was it like? …What are you to me?"

America opened and closed his mouth several times, still staring at England all the while. Eventually, he hung his head. "I can't. It's…we're fine now, but our history isn't what you think it is, England. It's pretty depressing, actually. It's something you wouldn't want to remember. I get it now…"

"I still don't think you do."

America whipped his head up, glaring angrily at the other's frustratingly bright eyes. "I _get_ it, alright? England _hates_ me; I've depressed him for too long. That's why he didn't want you learning about the history you missed: he didn't want you finding out about me and ruining everything. He's realised the only way he can possibly be happy is if he forgets all about me!"

"You idiot."

America's jaw hung open. What was he missing _this_ time?

"It's the opposite." England said, looking at him like he wanted to reach out and touch him, but wasn't sure how, or if it were allowed. "I'm going to go back. I'm going to go back because I _want_ to remember. I want to remember _us_." America stared, heart racing. "I'm not going to make the spell permanent, and I know he won't, either. I don't know why he was testing out this memory loss spell in the first place, but I can assure you, he would never make it last forever. He wouldn't forget his memories of you for the world, no matter how bittersweet they are."

"Why? Why do you want to remember, even though you know you're unhappy?"

"I want to remember everything about you, America," England practically whispered. America felt himself lean back in shock, and Iggy looked up at him shyly.

"I don't care how sad and tragic our past is together," England said quietly, looking down at the bed sheets again. "I want to know every little detail that brought you here to me. How did I ever turn into a man who has someone like you by his side? I would never believe it were possible, back where I'm from, so I want to remember how it happened. How much I changed. It must have been for the better if I have you. Even if we went through terrible things, it was all worth it if you're here with me now."

America must have been silent and staring for a long time. He was only jolted back into movement and coherent thought when he felt his eyes drying up from being open and unblinking for that long. "Iggy…It's sad. And you're unhappy. Are you sure – "

"I'm sure, America. I want to remember everything about you. Look how much I love you after spending just two days with you. Imagine how _he_ must feel about you, after all those centuries. I have no right to take you away from him…"

America shut his eyes and shook his head violently. "Woah, woah, woah. You don't understand. It's not like that between us. He doesn't feel that way about me."

"Oh, of _course_ he does, you moron!" England snapped, looking genuinely annoyed. "God, you _infuriate_ me, America!"

"What'd _I_ do?"

"You're so naïve. So naïve even _I_ didn't have the heart to go through with it!" Before America could ask what '_it_' was, England leant in close. "I wanted to be mean," he explained, voice soft and low and tempting. "I know you're convinced he doesn't love you – you're surprisingly insecure for someone so perfect and arrogantly confident. I could tell you that he doesn't love you the way I already do. If he did, he would have _done_ something about it already. I could tell you that if you let me stay you could at least have _me_ instead. Wouldn't that be nice, America?" He was so close, practically purring the last sentence in a whisper against America's skin. "You can never have him, but you can have me."

Suddenly America realised he was looking into the face of that devious and manipulative England from the past few nights. The one he had seen surface for a moment earlier in anger. Someone who could make America do whatever the other wanted, and oh, how he would have fallen for the words England was suggesting at this moment. Even now, he began to quake, believing every word. Of course it was true: England didn't love him, never would, he didn't want to have to live the rest of his life like this…

A sharp whack at the back of his head brought tears to his eyes – though more from shock than pain. He leant back (_when had he let his face get drawn so close to Iggy's?_) and saw England drawing his hand away. He had obviously just slapped America upside the head. Some things would never change…

"Of _course_ he loves you, you idiot!" Iggy practically groaned, a wry smile tilting his mouth upwards. All traces of the trickster teenage Iggy were gone – it had all been for show, letting America see how easily he could be swayed by his fears and insecurities.

America just sat there, rubbing the back of his head absently where he had been hit. England sighed and rolled his eyes. "I don't know what's happened to him," the green-eyed nation explained. "But obviously he's turned into some shy and scared old man who wouldn't even dare to touch someone like you. And that's why I hate him."

"You…you hate him?" America stammered. His thoughts from last night flooded back to him: when he saw Iggy dancing with those men and thought he must hate England to treat his body like that. It was true?

"He's…look what he's done to me," Iggy said, but there was no bite to it; he looked more sad than angry. "Turned me into a bloody coward! He lets you into his life until it revolves around you so desperately that he has to forget you _exist_ just to remember how to function without you! He can't live without you, America, but he can't _have_ you, and it's so cowardly and…" His rant trailed off and he heaved a long sigh from the depths of his heart, as if something were spilling out of its own accord. "It's not his fault. It's mine, too. That's why I hate him: because he makes me have to admit it…"

America couldn't exactly follow this train of thought. One second England was a coward and then…they _both_ were?

"I'm no different from him," Iggy admitted. "I wanted to say it was his fault, that if _I_ were around I'd just take you and make you mine but…I could never do that. Because you scare me, America. I need you so much that the wrong word from you would destroy me. And that's a new and horrible feeling to me.

"So I'd let my life revolve around you, too, and never tell you anything. I mean, _look_ at you, America! You're perfect. No matter how many years have passed, I doubt I would ever get so full of myself that I'd assume you could care about me the way you do. The fact that you love me is _truly_ unbelievable to me, America. It is now, and it always will be. Trust me on that."

Iggy glanced to the side, at the clock on the bedside table. America didn't follow his gaze, didn't see what he was looking at, didn't notice that the time read 11:59.

"That's why you _have_ to make the first move, America," said Iggy, grabbing the startled nation's face in both his hands. "I never will, because I'm scared of what you could do to me. So you have to _show_ me that you care, whether I believe it or not. For God's sake, don't make me wait any longer!"

And with that, Iggy closed the distanced between them, pressed his lips against America's, and kissed him like he wanted to remember it for the rest of his life.

.

.

And that was when England woke up.

* * *

><p>AN:  
>Stupid won't let me organise the page layout the way I want...It looks awful! AWFUL!<p>

So fifth and final chapter will be up tomorrow. Featuring: THE RETURN OF ENGLAND! This time, it's personal!


	6. Before we get much older

* ~ Before We Get Much Older ~ *

Suddenly, America felt two hands shove at his chest and push him away. The surprise of it knocked him off balance and he almost fell head first off the bed.

When he righted himself again, it was to find England standing on the other side of the bed, breathing heavily and bracing himself on the mattress. Many emotions competed for dominance on his face, but none of them were the rueful tenderness he had expressed a minute ago.

America was thoroughly confused, until his eyes fell on the clock half hidden behind England now, and he noticed the hands both pointing to 12.

Ah. That would explain it.

"WHAT THE BLOODY_ HELL_, AMERICA?"

America's mouth flapped like a fish's. How was he supposed to explain himself when that was all England's fault right there?

"I-I didn't…I mean, that wasn't – "

"No, go on, you're going to have to get it out eventually and I'm just _dying_ to hear it!"

"Look, I'm sorry! But that was _no way_ my fault. _You_ were the one who kissed _me_!"

Now it was England's turn for his jaw to drop. His eyebrows lifted in surprise and confusion, and then he quickly looked away, understanding and horror dawning on his features.

"O-oh. I see…Ah, yes, I suppose you met the, uh, teenage version of myself then."

"Yeah, I did. You don't…remember anything?"

To be honest, the thought had not occurred to America before: whether or not England would remember everything when he woke up. That was probably something he should have considered before he went around making out with Iggy and practically confessing his love for England right to his face. If England _did_ happen to remember the events of the past few days…then boy, was America going to have to find a big rock to hide under, and fast.

"No. That would be point of a _memory loss_ spell, now, wouldn't it?"

America let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Right. Cool. I mean, cool that your spell worked," he added quickly, trying not to look too relieved about the situation. "But look, before you get all worked up and start thinking badly of me, we didn't…I mean, he didn't…do anything bad. He was cool. That…what we were doing just then…I'm pretty sure he was just being a dick and trying to get me in trouble with you."

Or trying to set up a situation where America had no choice but to confess, the blue-eyed nation thought to himself. _That sneaky bastard…_

England chanced a glance up at America through lowered lashes, hoping against hope that this was America's clumsy way of saying 'No, we did not have sex.'

"Really?"

"Yeah. He was definitely a little…creepy at first. I really got the whole pirate-y 'raping and pillaging' vibe from him, you know? But I set him straight pretty quick." (Best not to go into details about their near-misses just yet…) "We just hung out for a few days. I kept an eye on him for you." America offered a nervous grin, and England's stiff body relaxed, but barely. The smaller nation nodded slightly, and then looked around the room, as if it would provide him with something to say.

"He kinda…made a mess in your house before I got here," America said, trying to ease the atmosphere back to something resembling their normal quarrelsome dynamic. "Sorry 'bout that. Looks like you'll have some cleaning to do. I got here Friday night, but I don't think he actually did any damage before that. Saturday we went around London, and today we just watched movies and shit. I…I hope you don't mind?" He wasn't sure what else to say.

"Sounds like you had fun," England murmured, looking too upset and jealous for it to be an off-hand comment, and yet America didn't dare hope… "He must have been a nice change from me."

"He was awesome." America took a deep, dramatic breath. _Well, better start somewhere_, he prepped himself. Iggy had given him the push, and now he had to keep going. "I missed _you_, though."

America was staring at England's lowered face, willing him to look up.

"You don't have to say that."

"I know I don't. That's not why I said it."

England looked up at that, and America's attention was so focused on the green of his eyes that he didn't notice the emotions struggling to contain themselves from the other's face.

"Why are you _here_, America?" England sighed, defeated.

"I was worried," he admitted.

These were things he never wanted to have to say, made him feel so uncomfortable putting himself out on the line. But if there was any chance it could help England, _any_ chance at all – and teenage-England had seemed to think it was worth it…

He would risk making a fool of himself for England.

"You weren't on Twitter for days, and I thought something bad had happened to you so I came to check up on you and you were all…like _that_, and I wanted to stay and make sure the spell broke properly and you turned back to normal." Okay, that was just babbling. Surely he could make it through this _and_ manage to be coherent, too?

England's impressive eyebrows drew up and wrinkled his forehead. "You didn't have to go through the trouble. I know you don't believe in magic, anyway, you must have thought it was ridiculous."

"Whatever it was, I wanted to be there for you," America said boldly, at the risk of sounding ridiculous.

"Why _you_, America?" England exclaimed at that, fists banging and bouncing on the mattress. "Why you of _all_ people? No one was supposed to be here! Why did you have to come looking for me?"

"Because it's my fault," America said, hanging his head and staring, unseeing, at the bed, scrunching the duvet in his fists. "I get that now. You're unhappy because of me, and I wanted to make it up to you. But I'll go now. You're back to normal, so I'll leave you alone."

Teenage-England had been wrong. America had known it all along: England didn't care about him. He was sick of him, in fact, wanted to forget all about him. Teenage-England had tried to help, but he didn't know the situation well enough. He was wrong about the two of them. Wrong about the way England felt for him.

America slipped off the bed and left the room in silence. He began silently gathering and packing up his things in the guest bedroom where he had spent the first night. The one in which Iggy had locked himself _last_ night after their little...whatever it was. America didn't have the energy to think about it anymore.

As he grabbed a few stray items that had been scattered round the room and in the bathroom, he wondered why teenage-England had been so desperate to get them together in the future. Surely, if _he_ was the one who wanted some company, like he'd implied, then he shouldn't be encouraging America to confess to the _future_-England.

Iggy had clearly had issues, been lonely and unhappy and a little lost – and hiding it all behind the scariest, most ruthless persona he could muster. (Which was pretty sizable.)

Why was this England so much _more_ unhappy, America wondered, morbidly. Sure there were more wars added in that four hundred years in between them, but there were good things, too. Progression and peace and understanding and enlightenment, the likes of which the teenage-England had never known, never dreamt possible. Did the bad really outweigh all the good?

It was as he hefted his backpack over his shoulder and prepared to leave that an answer blossomed in his head, making him fall completely still.

It wasn't the burdens of the past 400 years that had made England unhappy. It was the _good_ times.

It was during that time that England had found happiness at last. Met a little blonde-haired, blue-eyed nation and found an ally, a companion, a _brother_ he thought he would never have. Something unbelievable, Iggy had called it.

England had found happiness, something he had never expected to happen. And then it was taken away. America took it away. The one who had given it to him unconditionally, decided to take it away, after all.

It wasn't the revolution that had made him unhappy. It was the fact that he had had something great, and then lost it again.

No wonder England hated him so much. No wonder he was unhappier now…

"America?"

England was standing in the doorway of the guest bedroom, voice soft and unsure and fingers fiddling nervously with his sleeves – though his customary scowl tried to offset the vulnerable demeanour.

America let his rucksack slump off his shoulder to the floor, but he remained staring into space, unable to look at England.

"I'm sorry for whatever my younger self said or did. If he did anything inappropriate. I know what I used to be like, so I'm sure he was…a handful. And that kiss…I…I do apologise. I know it wasn't your fault."

"Is he coming back?" America heard himself ask.

"Wha…?" England whispered, almost to himself. Then comprehension dawned on him – or rather, he let himself jump to conclusions. "Do you _want_ him back?"

"Not if it means losing you," America said, so loud and firm that it jolted his listlessness back to life. He turned to face England, and looked him in the eye. "I would never want that."

"Then why – "

"That's why you did the spell in the first place, right?" America urged. "You wanted to forget me. And everything," he added quickly, so as not to make England feel guilty. "So you could…go back to when you were happiest and have a better life from now on."

England looked at him for a moment, face unreadable.

"Don't be an idiot."

America's eyes snapped wider. "What?"

"You think I did it so that I could erase all my memories _permanently_? So I could swan around like an arrogant teenager without a care in the world? How is a 17th century privateer supposed to run a 21st country? Honestly, that's preposterous!"

America couldn't help the smile that flashed onto his face, even if it was inappropriate.

"That's just what he said."

"I was just testing it," England said, and it took America a moment before he realised England was talking about the spell. "I did it in December so that no one would get suspicious. It was actually for…for the summer."

America frowned at him, trying to read his thoughts through his furrowed brow and lowered eyes.

"For the week before my birthday?"

"Um, yes, I tend to get sick around that time for some reason. I thought if I…lost all my memories, I might…um…"

"Yeah, I get it," America interrupted kindly, saving England from having to babble some lame excuse.

England looked up with a determined frown which even America could tell was a mask for something. "I know he's more fun than I am. I know you two must have gotten along well. And if you miss him then I can – "

"Don't _ever_ do that."

England's defensive frown was swept off his face at America's harsh tone and serious glare. "I'm sorry you're unhappy, because of me," America said. He felt strangely calm, despite the decades of build-up and anxiety behind the words he knew he had to say next. "But I…I love you, England, and I never wanted to hurt you this badly. I'll do anything to make it up to you. Just don't ever go away."

England was visibly shaking, and his knuckles clutching the doorframe were white as he tried to support himself.

Trying to look bolder than he felt, America walked towards him, took his hand, and led him to sit on the guest bed. These conversations really were more suited to sitting down, anyway.

"I'm sorry for putting this pressure on you," America said calmly, once they were both sitting on the edge of the bed. They were still holding hands because neither had the courage to move and disturb the awkward calm surrounding them.

"I'm not asking for anything. I just want you to know…it kills me that you're sad. It kills me that I can't do anything about it. But even though you're unhappy, you're perfect just the way you are, England. You don't have to go back to when you were a teenage empire to be worth anything. Nobody can replace you – not even him."

England was staring at the carpet, but his gaze was seeing something much further away. America really didn't know what else to say, so he just waited until England was ready to reply, to tell him '_Thank you, but your love doesn't make me feel any better_.'

"Is that true?"

America's eyes shone, his honesty trying to seep out and reach the other through every fibre of his being. "I know you think I'm young and stupid, but I take this just as seriously as you do, England. I know it might be hard to believe – after all we've been through, and all _you've_ been through. But I'll never be more serious about anything in my life."

"That's not saying much," England said, feeling awkward, trying to brush him off.

"_England_," America reproached. "Please. At least _pretend_ you'll try and believe it. It would mean a lot to me if you didn't just brush it off."

In reply, England squeezed his hand. It was weak: the touch of a man trying to control every emotion he had. But America felt it, and felt his heart clench tightly. He knew England was listening to him.

"You're wrong, by the way."

"What?" America tilted his head in confusion.

"Being a young, free empire: that wasn't the time when I was happiest." England looked at him sideways, then quickly away again. "That honour falls to my time raising you."

America's heart felt just a little lighter in his chest.

"And then I ruined it. I'm – "

"Don't you ever say that," England said firmly, shaking his head to himself. "You can't blame yourself. This is how it goes for us. Don't you think I would have done the exact same in your situation?"

"But I hurt you," America asked, in disbelief.

"Dreadfully so," England said, closing his eyes to shut out the memory of the pain, always so ready to surface. "But you didn't do it to be hateful. I can't help being sad that we're not so close anymore, but I don't blame you."

"You'd better not blame yourself then, either."

"Believe me, I don't."

They both smiled ruefully, and glancing at each other, shared the look between themselves.

"Is it okay that I love you?" asked America. It was surprising how natural it felt to have it out in the open between them. He was genuinely happy to learn how relieving it was to have this weight off his chest – to have England know that America worshipped him. England had the right to know something like that, he shouldn't have kept it secret for so long. "I know it must seem like a dick move: I go and become independent and then later claim that I love you. But I mean it."

"I…I suppose you do," England said, lips quirking into a crooked smile for just a moment. "Is it okay if I don't _quite_ believe it? I don't mean to make light of your feelings, it's just…well, rather new to me. Might take some getting used to."

"I figured you wouldn't quite get it," America smiled, and found it easy to do so. There was still a pang and an ache in his chest when he thought how his feelings would never be returned, but he seemed to have made England a little happier, a little more confident. And that was just fine. "Iggy told me – oh, yeah, he didn't mind that nickname," America grinned when England turned red, first in fury, then embarrassment. "Iggy told me he would never be able to believe it if somebody cared about him. You seem to have had it rough, England. But just so you know, I'll always care – whether you believe it or not."

"Git. Saying such things…"

America smiled.

"I suppose that…" England trailed off for a minute, clearly searching for the words, or perhaps the courage. America felt the smaller nation squeeze his hand again, and he squeezed back, earning a tiny gasp from England. "I suppose the least I can do is be honest with you, too," he gushed.

This brought a frown back to America's face. What could possibly be left to say _now_?

"It means a lot to me, that you say you love me. And even though I find it hard to believe, I want to show you that I still value those words. I'm willing to trust you, even if I don't quite believe any of it. So, to prove it, I suppose I should tell you now that…I love you, too, America. Of course I do," he added, seemingly to himself, with a little smile that the blue-eyed nation couldn't figure out.

It was America's turn to be speechless again.

As lovely as it should sound to him, it was something he had never, ever expected to hear. And he suddenly found out exactly how England felt when he said he 'couldn't quite believe it.'

"Really?" was the only thing he could safely say.

"I would have thought it was bloody obvious."

"Not to me."

"Well, _there's_ a surprise!"

America knew he was being insulted, but he also knew it was half-hearted at best, and that England was just being his blustery self to avoid the awkwardness for as long as possible.

"But we're so _different_, England," America said, almost pleading, as if hoping to bring the other back to his senses. He didn't want to get his hopes up for nothing. "How can you possibly want _me_? I don't understand anything you've been through or how to help you through it; I could never give you what you need. You're better off with someone who can understand you, someone like France – "

"Don't _EVER_ say that again!" England shouted immediately – as usual, any mention of his ancient rival snapping him out of the soberest of moods.

"Okay, sorry," America said, holding one hand up in surrender while the other was clasped in England's death grip. "I just mean, you know everything about _me_, but I don't know anything about _you_. I see that now – after being with _him_. How am I…Just how am I supposed to be anybody important to you when I don't understand your past? When we have nothing in common?"

England stared at him, looking incredulous. It was quite off-putting.

"You're a right imbecile." America began to protest but England pushed his free hand against America's mouth to shut him up. "If I said any of that to you, what would you think?"

America looked at him patiently, until England blushed in realisation and took his hand away from the other's mouth.

"I'd think it was a load of bullshit."

"Exactly. I don't know about you but I didn't…fall in love with you – " (he said that part rather quietly) " – just because we have an awful lot in common. You have to stop putting me on a pedestal, America. Lord knows how you got me up there in the first place."

America wanted to protest, but found his tongue oddly tied up.

"It doesn't matter to me that you don't understand my past," England carried on, looking away again, a blush dusting his cheeks and finally America was _allowed_ to stare at it. "That's one of the reasons you're so precious to me, actually. You have nothing to do with that terrible time. Everything changed when I met you."

He looked embarrassed to be saying this, but now the door was open apparently he just couldn't close it.

"The fact is, before that – in the life that '_Iggy'_ knew – I'd…I had never met anyone like you, America." England threw him a sidelong glance, and suddenly America was very aware of the fact that they were holding hands. "Humans were not in our league. I barely gave them a second thought as individuals, save for the few that stood out – the giants among men. And as for _our_ kind: I didn't have any friends, and my real brothers were a mess. The other nations were either my enemies or possessions or tools to get what I wanted.

"And then, suddenly, there _you_ were," England said, locking green and blue gazes with America for a moment before turning away again. "Something I could barely believe but so bright I couldn't ignore it. You were lovely and you _cared_ and you were sweet and honest...I've had other colonies, so it wasn't _that _which made you stand out. You were just always special to me. At first I didn't know why, but now I do. You're everything I could ever want, America. You fill every space inside me: you were the perfect family, then my most valuable ally, then a loyal friend. And now, maybe you can be the one I…love." Again, this word was practically whispered, as if England thought saying it too loud would kill it. "None of our other relationships have ever worked out for us, so maybe this is what we're supposed to be to each other. But I still can't even believe it. Having someone like you in my life, after all the disasters I've been through, the terrible way I used to live. Why would I not _want_ you? How could your differences _possibly_ turn me away? They're what make you a better person than me."

America laughed, much softer and warmer than his regular boisterous noise. England looked at him, worried he had said too much, been too emotional and embarrassing.

"You told me not to put you on a pedestal. I'll only agree if you promise to do the same for me, okay?" England looked slightly confused, as if he really believed America to be all that he said he was, so why _shouldn't_ he talk about it? "I'm happy you love me, England, don't get me wrong. But _you're_ the one who's lived centuries more than me, and I still don't see how I can be enough for you. Don't assume I'm everything you need, because I don't wanna let you down. And if your past really was all that bad, then I don't know how to help you through it…"

"Idiot." England rolled his eyes. "Nobody can '_help me through it_', America. It's over now; that's the point, it's all in the past. And it's not the _past_ I'm worried about. It's the future.

"Yes, I lived a long time without you, but is that any reason to deny me a future _with_ you? It's not my fault that I'm older than you so don't hold it against me in some misguided sense of righteousness. And, look, for all you know, we could end up spending more of our lives together than we did apart, so it wouldn't matter in the end, anyway."

America's eyes widened. He had never thought of it like that before. He had been so caught up in wondering how he could help England get over his troubled past that he hadn't even thought about the future. He had missed out on a lot, it seemed. But he could be there every step of the way from now on. Make sure England was happy for the rest of their long lives.

"Look, if you don't want to, I understand," England said with a frown. "But you said you loved me. I hope you're not getting scared now." America was about to protest that heroes _never_ get scared, until England captured his attention with that deadly hook in his bright green eyes. "Because _I_ want to risk it."

"You do?" For some reason it surprised America. It was one thing to admit that they loved each other, but another thing entirely to actually attempt being together like that. The thought of it sent his mind and heart reeling, dizzyingly.

"Yes, America. Let's just…let's get together before we get much older. I-if that's…what you want?"

America stared at him, too bewildered to get a hold of himself. Then he felt England's hand twitch in his, and his mind came screaming back to life.

"Sounds awesome to me." It would have sounded non-committal, but the face-splitting grin that he couldn't rein in made his heart's answer clear enough.

England smiled back, and America had never felt more important and proud and happy than he did right now for causing that smile. He was looking forward to more of this.

They sat there grinning stupidly for a while, letting relief and hope wash over them, and wondering at how quickly decades' worth of tension and worry had disappeared in an instant, without them barely noticing.

They felt a little ridiculous, too: if they'd known it was this easy to get rid of all that pent-up stress and anguish, they would have done this a lot sooner. How foolish of them both for being so shy and insecure.

"Well, it's, like, 1 a.m. We should get some sleep," America said finally, though he made no move to stand up or let go of England's hand.

"Yes, of course." England also didn't move.

"Do you…" England blushed, and America grinned, knowing exactly where the perverted nation's mind was going. "Can I sleep with you, tonight? And I really mean just sleep. I'm exhausted."

"A-are you sure?"

"Yeah. I wanna be right next to you. All the time. You're gonna get pretty sick of me, let me tell you."

England's giddy smile and blush must have embarrassed the older nation, if his quick cough and fidgeting were anything to go by. But they _looked_ perfect on him, America thought.

They had to let go of each other's hands, and it was pathetic how much America missed it already – like he couldn't breathe properly without that contact anymore. They changed in separate rooms and when he was sure England was done, America headed into the master bedroom to join him.

For a moment they stood awkwardly on opposite sides of the bed, but then England noticed the rumpled covers that had obviously not been made properly in a week. His complaining relaxed America immediately and he laughed and apologised and promised to help clean up tomorrow. And then they were lying in bed next to each other.

Not close, not even looking at each other. They were both on their backs, staring up at the canopy of England's four poster bed. And it wasn't what America wanted from this first night together.

He rolled over on to his side, looking at England and waiting for the other nation to summon the courage to look back. When he did, America withdrew a hand from under the blankets and laid it palm up on the mattress space between them.

England rolled over to face him, and rested a hand in his.

And America thought it would be okay to lean in and give him just one little kiss, so he did, and even though it was a tiny brush of the lips, not even remotely romantic, it didn't _feel_ like a little kiss to him.

"Good night…Arthur."

England smiled again, and America knew he would never get tired of it.

"Good night, Alfred."

Oh, yes. This was it. The one with whom he _really_ belonged.

This was _his_ England, alright.

* * *

><p>AN:

It's over!

I hope the ending was satisfying. The rest of the story was so angsty I had to work really hard to make sure the ending was happy and emotionally satisfying. Didn't want to leave you all feeling like there were loose ends left to be tied up, or feeling worried that these two would not get their happy ending.

Because they do.

A hugemongous thank you to everyone who reviewed. Your words and encouragement and support made me so happy, and gave me so much confidence that I now can't wait to start my next story! (It won't be anything like this one – this was really far outside my comfort zone, let me tell you. But since it was a 'Secret Santa' I had to attempt it.)

Thank you for reading, everyone! You're all awesome!


End file.
